Interrogation Can Be Fun

 Some Mondays, finding the topic challenges me more than on others. Today, I’m taking inspiration from yesterday’s church service during which our minister answered questions on the fly that were submitted by congregants in advance. But who could I get to submit questions to me?

 I have probably mentioned in other posts how I use AI to figure out problems from fabric measurements for quilting to technical issues on my computer, from how to apply for a Canadian certificate of citizenship to how to get to Prague from Vienna by train. As long as I am careful to fact-check and watch for hallucinations, I find my AI to be very useful in daily life.

 So today I asked the AI program—I use Copilot—to pose several questions for me based on what it had learned about me from our interactions. I got eight surprisingly good questions. I’m not going to tackle all eight of them because I’m writing a post, not a magazine article, but let’s see where I get.

 Question One: What small domestic ritual has quietly become essential to your sense of order and comfort?

 Answer: I thought this one would give me trouble. I don’t think of myself as particularly domestic, despite having been home-based for decades. And I don’t feel like I have rituals; I’m more of a do-what-presents-itself kind of person. But a moment’s thought brought clarity. Every morning I make a cup of coffee with a touch of sugar-free salted caramel syrup and a splash of half and half in it. While it’s brewing, I unload the dishwasher and then go outside to get the newspaper.

 I slip into my recliner, coffee and paper in hand, and read as I sip. I like to read the actual local paper even though I have an online NYT subscription and I’m on plenty of news lists. It’s kind of expensive, about $1.50 a day, but the coffee’s cheaper than Starbucks, so I figure it works out. Today I had to leave for an appointment before my coffee/paper routine. When I returned at noon, I brought in the paper, unloaded the dishwasher, and made my daily cuppa, then sat down and enjoyed it. My day just wouldn’t have been the same if I’d skipped this.

 Question 2: What has gardening taught you about patience, timing, or control?

 Answer: This has to be a trick question because I am a totally useless gardener! I didn’t even think I’d ever asked a question that would lead Copilot to think I gardened. But wait, I did ask about rototillers not too long ago to use in the garden that borders our front patio. Michael and I built that patio decades ago. Originally planted with rose bushes and lots of other good stuff, it has become, over the years, mostly weeds. On a good day, it is green and the roses still bloom.

 I recently found a big can of Texas wildflower seeds that I impulsively bought two years ago. That gave me the bright idea to till the garden bed, rake out the weeds, and sprinkle the seeds in to see what would happen. Maybe we’d get a flower garden! Copilot did instruct me on the correct conditions for using a rototiller; one of them is mostly-dry soil. Sadly, we’ve had buckets of rain in the last few weeks, so nothing has happened. The biggest lesson gardening has taught me is that I’m incompetent as a gardener. Since I don’t have enough money to hire one, I’m always going to be flower deprived. I am thankful for my apparently invincible roses and my lovely crape myrtle trees.  

 Question 3: What recent moment of awe—artistic, natural, or unexpected—shifted your perspective, even briefly?

Answer: Birdsong. I went out to get the paper one day last week and I noticed, in the morning stillness, that I heard a lot of birds singing. Cornell University has a wonderful free app that I can’t recommend enough called Merlin. Merlin listens to birds calling around you and identifies them. As a bird is recognized, an image pops up so you can see what it looks like. As different birds call, it switches between them so you can follow the conversation so to speak.

 The other day when I first noticed the birdsong, I turned on Merlin and just stood in my driveway for a few minutes. These are the birds it identified: Carolina Wren, Northern Cardinal, Yellow-throated Warbler, White-winged Dove, Carolina Chickadee, Yellow-rumped Warbler, American Robin, American Goldfinch, Egyptian Goose, and American Crow. I stood transfixed for a moment, serenaded by ten different kinds of birds, all tucked out of sight in the green leaves of trees, while I watched their photos flick across the screen of my phone. Awesome!

 Question 4: When did you last surprise yourself in the kitchen, and what did that moment reveal about you?

 Answer: I was going to skip this one because I don’t think I surprise myself much in the kitchen these days. I am a competent cook and an excellent baker, though I much prefer baking to cooking. Copilot probably posed the question because I have used it to solve cooking problems, like the day I needed marinated artichoke hearts, but had purchased plain artichoke hearts by mistake. Copilot told me what I needed to add to my recipe to make up for the missing marinade.

 I did have an insight the other day. I made coleslaw for dinner, which always includes making my father’s coleslaw dressing. I don’t have a recipe for it; I just know what to use. And I don’t measure beyond dollops and spoonfuls, I just know how much. When it’s made, I do a taste test and adjust as needed. I can make it in my sleep. Likewise, I can make my version of fried rice without a recipe and, surprisingly, a Basque cheesecake.

 The insight is this: I have become one of those cooks, like my mother and grandmothers, who can make things because they just know how, not because they followed a recipe. I can pour salt into my palm and, if I check, by golly it will be the teaspoon or half teaspoon I intended. I can whomp up some chili without a starter mix or a cookbook. Likewise something Chinese, although it will not be a “named” Chinese dish. I guess I’ve finally earned my KP stripes!

 That’s it for my Monday Q&A. Answering these questions turned out to be more revealing than I expected. Thanks, Copilot, for the assist.

 Ciao

The Art of Walking Out

 Saturday night, it stormed in Houston. The weather service had predicted it for days, although without enough specificity to make plans around the weather. The storm’s timing remained in question right up until Saturday. And Houston’s enormous footprint made that even more tenuous—what part of Houston’s skies you lived under would make all the difference in how bad the storm hit you.

 Ordinarily, that wouldn’t make much difference to us, all snug and cozy in our little ranch house. We’d sit in the living room, reading or watching TV or just visiting, and enjoy the lightshow outside the three large windows by the deck. Our only fear would be loss of power, a regular occurrence during thunderstorms.

 But this Saturday, things were dicier. We had tickets to the Houston Ballet. As season subscribers, our tickets and our seats are assigned long before the performances, sometimes to our surprise when we try to schedule something else on the calendar. Occasionally, we had to exchange tickets to another evening, but it couldn’t be a last minute event because our regular performance happens on the last Saturday of the two-week run.

 We had no choice but to brave this weather if we wanted to see our performance on Saturday. Complicating the equation, we knew the program and it wasn’t a favorite of ours. The ballet, Sylvia, is a complex story of ancient Greece with three female leads: Artemis, Psyche, and Sylvia in three convoluted love stories that intertwined.

 We had already seen Sylvia twice—it’s opening season in 2019 and a few years later when the company reprised it. Why they felt compelled to perform it a third time was beyond us. Of course, the company returned to well-loved canons of ballet like Swan Lake and Coppelia regularly. The Nutcracker ran every year for a month at a time. But Sylvia is no Swan Lake, IMHO.

 We attend all performances unless we absolutely can’t and then lucky friends get our tickets. We go even if it’s not our favorite, because the dancing is always excellent and it’s a chance to see different performers tackle new roles. We were going to Sylvia Saturday night if the storm didn’t make it impossible. If fact, we planned to leave early, just in case.

 Late afternoon, the storm came through Cypress, our northwest Houston area. Winds whipped anything not tied down around the yard; lighting strike after lightning strike pierced the sky overhead; thunder boomed right on top of us. We held our breath, so to speak, but surprisingly, we didn’t go dark. As things settled into rain, not storm, we decided we could go out safely.

 I had planned an early, simple dinner and by 5:30 pm we were finished and changing into good clothes. We left around 6, certainly early enough because the performance started at 7:30 and the drive usually took about 40 minutes. Steady rain beat down, but not the downpour we had experienced earlier. All seemed well.

 A note about highways here: the lane markings are abysmal, even during daylight hours with no rain. Driving them in rain was challenging. Using the drivers ahead helped some, but with twisting roads, we were both tense and watching traffic like hawks. About 15 minutes into the drive, the skies opened, thunder and lightning exploded above us, and the highway all but disappeared. Drivers in front of us turned on their flashers which, combined with the windshield wipers at top speed, reduced visibility to almost nothing.

 It was, frankly, terrifying. We couldn’t even tell how far we had driven because we couldn’t see the buildings along the side of the road. I had a moment of clarity, realizing that we were risking our lives driving to a performance we didn’t even care about. “We don’t have to go to the performance, Michael. Let’s just get off the highway and go home.” He kept driving and I kept quiet for a few more tense minutes.

 The rain let up a bit and then poured down on us again in a deluge. “Seriously, let’s just turn around,” I tried again. Holding the steering wheel in a death grip, Michael finally said, “It’ll be more dangerous to exit than to keep going.” We were coming up to a long, high flyover with no way to exit and I just swallowed and said okay.

 We did make it to the performance. We parked in a ridiculously expensive garage so that we would have underground access to the theater ($18 versus our usual $12 and walk a block outdoors). And we got there with 15 minutes to spare. Not bad.

 We watched the first act. It was a trial for me because I had trouble seeing clearly. I had brought my small binoculars, but the action was wide-ranging and not conducive to viewing through a narrow field of vision. Michael’s view, he told me at intermission, was obscured by BIG hair in front of him. (BIG hair is still a Texas peril, even today.)

 We looked at each other quietly. One of us, or maybe both of us, said, “We could leave.” We let that marinate a minute. Yes, we could leave. It was a revelation. Just because we bought tickets last March for this performance, this March did not require us to stay if we weren’t enjoying it. Intermission wasn’t over. We gathered our things and strolled out, pleased to be leaving.

 The weather had improved during our hour indoors and we got home without the clutching fear we had arrived with. In the house, I suggested we have a treat of cantaloupe and vanilla ice cream. “I’ll fix the cantaloupe and you can get the ice cream ready,” I suggested. “Sounds like a deal,” Michael answered. Dessert was delicious and well-deserved.

 Have something delicious tonight yourself!!

 Ciao

 

Fractal Fun

 

Michael and I recently spent an intriguing afternoon at Artechouse in Houston, the same place we took the grandkids when they visited after Christmas. Artechouse is a fascinating and fun immersive art-and-technology environment with interactive exhibits. We saw the holiday special with Felix and Gabe and enjoyed it so much we had to go back.

 This time, we saw the exhibition Fractal Worlds by acclaimed Dutch artist Julius Horsthuis. I know what fractals are and have even put together jigsaw puzzles of fractal images. That doesn’t mean I understand them. To my eye, they are fascinating swirls of colors—usually, but not always—repeating in ever-diminishing patterns.

 Imagine sitting on a riser in a room so dark that you aren’t sure where your feet are. All around you—floor, ceilings, and four walls—images are spinning and eddying, larger renderings breaking into ever-smaller variations of the original elements.

 The more I tried to focus on those elements, the faster they seemed to whirl away and become something else. But were they actually different? My mind boggled to the point that I stopped trying to see and just enjoyed experiencing the pageantry of motion.

 What is a fractal, really? The Fractal Foundation explains them like this: “A fractal is a never-ending pattern. Fractals are infinitely complex patterns that are self-similar across different scales. They are created by repeating a simple process over and over in an ongoing feedback loop…” The definition goes on (and on) and you can read the full version using the link I’ve provided. The bottom line is that fractals use complex math.

 That wasn’t helpful, because recursion was its own mystery. When I tried to get a definition, my search engine offered me a lot of coder-worthy gobbledygook that made no sense either. After several unproductive stabs at it, I finally typed, “Explain recursion to me like I am a fifth-grader.”

 That did the trick. The actual definition didn’t help so much: “Recursion is when something solves a problem by asking a smaller version of itself to help — and it keeps doing that until the problem is so small it’s easy to solve.” Huh, what?

 But boy oh boy, did the example ever help! A teacher hands a stack of test papers to the first kid in a row of desks and says, “Take one and pass them on.” Every kid takes one, hands them on, and repeats the instruction to the next kid. By the end of the row, the last kid gets the last test paper. Recursion complete. That I understand!

 The delightful, unpredictable (to my eye) series of images surrounding me in the dark were created with a particular fractal equation called a Mandelbrot Set. It’s not just the complicated mathematics or the images the equations create that make the results so mesmerizing, but also the cinematic filmmaking Horsthuis employs to present his work.

 There were four different rooms of fractal images, each unique. In one of them you stood, in another one you could stand, sit or lie down, one simply had benches, and a fourth one had large bean bags to lie on while you watched the fractal film on the ceiling. Michael and I used those beanbags when we visited with Felix and Gabe. To our dismay, getting back on our feet was an embarrassing spectacle neither of us wishes to repeat.

 In addition to the room displays, there were about ten large, interactive wall displays where you could make the fractals bend and move, shrink or grow, recede or advance by moving your body. Each one had a different image and it was a lot of fun to be in control of the action, so to speak.

 The final area of Artechouse is a suite of rooms with complex laser displays. I found them fascinating, but hard on my eyes, with vivid red lasers or very bright white light lasers, sometimes in combination. After making the rounds of that area briefly, I decided to call it a day and get a soda at the lobby bar. Watching fractals is very dry work, probably because your mouth is hanging open in awe so much!

 That show is now over and the new one—Blooming Wonders: A Celebration of Spring—is coming soon, with pricing specials available. I haven’t seen it, of course, but I highly recommend the experience at Artechouse, whatever the show. Go out and have a little fun!

 Ciao

 P.S. They have locations in New York City and Washington, D.C. as well as in Houston.

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?

What's in Your Basket?

 Give me a basket of clean clothes, right out of the dryer, and I’m a happy woman. Since my oldest child was an infant — in the olden days of cloth diapers — I have enjoyed folding clothes. I became a single mom early in her life and suffered the same overload that single parents face today. There’s too much to do, not enough time or money, and something always seems to go wrong at the most inauspicious moment.

 During the overload of events in a normal day, sitting down to fold a pile of clean diapers gave me a welcome break. I was doing something that needed to be done, but it was simple, even mindless, and the feel of the soft fabric in my hands was comforting.

 Folding clothes has never been a chore for me. I know people who hate to do it, though. Some of them dress out of laundry baskets, something that raises the hackles of my anti-wrinkle sensibilities. I’ve given up ironing and use Downy Wrinkle Release when it’s really needed, but I don’t like to put on wrinkled clothes. That makes folding out of the dryer even more important.

 It also makes proper folding imperative. My husband thinks that my notions of proper folding are total overkill and he may be right. Perhaps there is a touch of OCD in the neat little bundles that I fold t-shirts into, but it’s really essential from a storage standpoint: if I don’t fold them just right, they will not fit into my t-shirt drawer!

 T-shirts are soft, like cloth diapers, and comforting to fold. But they present special problems. People give you tees with clever sayings on them and you have to keep those gifts. And you see beautiful, or funny, or whimsical tees that you fall in love with and you have to keep those. And there are the mementos of places you visit or events you attend. You definitely have to keep those.

 All these have-to-keeps mean my t-shirt drawer is stuffed with 55 tees. I counted them last night after I put away the freshly folded clothes just for today’s blog. 55. OMG, that seems excessive even to me. I think about culling them — curating them is a gentler notion — but I never want to give any up. Could it be an addiction?

 I bought a lovely tee in Ireland several years ago. After a few washes (and maybe a few pounds), it no longer fit. Did I throw it out? NO! I cut out the lovely image and appliquéd it onto a brand-new t-shirt bought for that express purpose. At least that was a zero sum transaction. If I get one more t-shirt, I will have to get rid of something because nothing else will fit in the drawer. Catastrophe!

 In order to get 55 t-shirts into a standard IKEA, dresser drawer, I have perfected folding them into 5X7 packets that may be anywhere from an inch to 3 inches deep, depending on the thickness of the fabric. They march across my drawer in three rows. It’s a bit harder to haul them out of the back row, but I manage.

 If I’m going to admit to my t-shirt OCD tendencies, I’ll add that I try to pull them out from left to right and alternate rows so all the tees get their chance to be worn. When I put away clean shirts, they always go on the right side of the row. It’s an inventory thing to me. Gotta rotate the stock.

 Beyond the nostalgia problem, what do you do with old t-shirts? I resist putting them in the trash because — landfills. My recycler won’t take them. Thrift shops don’t want them either. What do you do with an old Houston Ballet t-shirt from a dance program 8 years ago or a family reunion shirt from 12 years ago? They’re too worn to wear, too special to give up, and you can only use so many cleaning rags.

For now, I am trying not to acquire t-shirts. I have moved some into an archive of sorts with a dream of making myself a t-shirt memory quilt someday, if I live long enough. (One of those t-shirts is from 1966. Another is from the early 70s. They are truly memory keepers.)  As long as a few t-shirts are still in the dirty clothes, my drawer is manageable. The real crunch only occurs after I fold the clean laundry.

I find that, with t-shirts, it’s all about balance. What are you balancing these days?

Ciao

 

 

 

 

Worlds of Wonderment

 Our grandkids arrived from Brooklyn on December 26 and flew home again on December 31. After a fun-filled, busy, and — for us old people — fairly exhausting round of activities all over Houston, I came home from the airport yesterday, took a nap, and vegged out for the rest of 2025. Thus, my last blog post of 2025 has become my first blog post of 2026.

 An 8-year-old boy (Gabe) and a 12-year-old girl (Felix) seemed like a pretty safe bet for an unaccompanied holiday trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. They are not toddlers who get into everything, they can manage their own personal needs, and they are excellent communicators most of the time. Piece of cake.

 Because of the kids, Michael and I explored worlds of wonderment that old folks rarely visit. One day, we went to Artechouse, an immersive art and technology environment that was tremendously fascinating and fun, especially the interactive exhibits.

 One night, we went to the Museum of Fine Arts Houston’s holiday program at Bayou Bend, a gorgeous estate that was decked out with what looked like a million lights and lots of activities for families. I particularly liked the building that came to life through the magic of video technology. The animated antics were very realistic, even though you knew they were impossible.

 We took several shopping trips to various locales where the kids spent their Christmas money. I have permission to walk in my boot, but the outlet mall sorely overtaxed me and I may have gotten a little crabby about all the walking. The kids did find good stores, though, like Earth’s Ology, where they bought rocks and uncut gemstones for their collections.

 During their five days here, we also managed pizza night and a game night with Aunt Alix and Uncle Adam. And we saw the new Spongebob Squarepants movie, my first opportunity to actually experience the Spongebob phenomenon. Wow. I had NO idea what I was missing — but I’m totally okay with continuing to miss it.

 At home, we had several distractions that fascinated the kids. Number one: Frankie, the elderly cat I wrote about earlier this year. Although Frankie has blossomed from totally timid to almost outgoing in the year since his housemate Baby died, he is still quite reluctant to meet new people, especially children. (Our toddler grandson AJ terrorized him on a regular basis the six months he lived here.)

 Felix and Gabe are nice kids and did not terrorize Frankie except for the fact that they were breathing in his vicinity. The administration of excessive treats persuaded him to accept the calm petting Felix bestowed on him. Gabe got in a little petting, too, but he’s allergic to cats, so not very much.

 What Gabe got that THRILLED him was guns — toy guns, to be clear — a shotgun and a kind of Gatling gun/pistol combo. Why do we have two such toys, you might ask? A gift from Alix and Adam years ago, they were intended as an encouragement to playfulness.

 We never really warmed up to the idea of gunfights, though. We did shoot them for the cats, who loved chasing the nerf bullets, but, as cats do not fetch, hunting bullets all over the house quickly lost its appeal. We put them in a game cupboard and forgot about them. Gabe found them seemingly within minutes of arriving at our house.

 In between all these activities, the kids played various loud and raucous games that may have been tag. They spent some time outdoors, a relief for old ears, and Gabe was delightfully willing to fetch mail and the newspaper for his hobbled old Grandma.

Electronics filled in empty spots, with Gabe playing on our antiquated Wii system and Felix on her tablet. Those were the only quiet moments and I’m glad there weren’t too many of them.

We had fun with the kids and are very glad they visited us. Last year they came with their parents and that was nice, too. We’ll have to see what next year brings. In the meantime, happy New Year to you all!

Ciao

Busy, Busy, Busy

 December and the beginning of January are busy, busy, busy times at our house. Michael and I got married on December 21, not realizing—sweet young things that we were—that children would bring school events that crowded our anniversary almost to oblivion. School pageants, and later band recitals, for two or three kids often left us eating our anniversary dinner in January.

 Christmas is frenetic with all the shopping for and wrapping and hiding gifts. Fun, but time consuming. On Christmas Eve, we are in the habit of going to our church for the evening candlelight service, replete with carols and good cheer. Then we go home for a special meal: cheese and crackers, sausage, fresh fruit, and Christmas cookies, along with obligatory Irish coffee.

 The Irish coffee is served in beautiful goblets that are embossed in gold and green with lines indicating how much sugar, how much whiskey, and how much coffee. You’re on your own for the whipped cream serving, but I think that frothing over the goblet is just right. We received the Irish coffee goblets as a wedding gift in 1976 and we have toasted Christmas Eve with them every year for the last 49 years. Kids partake too, with the whiskey adjusted appropriately.

 We used to open presents on Christmas Eve after dinner—hence the easy to make and to clean up meal— and Santa left gifts for Christmas morning, but, as a family, we decided to go full Christmas morning for gifts after I became ill with lupus. We needed to streamline our traditions to make it easier to manage. The ‘new’ way worked well enough that we’ve kept on doing it for about 30 years.

 Now that we’ve gotten through our anniversary, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, you’d think a little peace and relaxation would descend on the house. Wrong—I’m still busy. December 28 is Michael’s birthday. Since it’s right after the holidays, I always try to make him feel extra special. And because I am a dedicated sale shopper, I almost always buy those gifts in the after-Christmas sales, so I have to duke it out with the crowds.

 The cake is baked, the gifts wrapped, and his special dinner is cooked. Now can we get some peace and quiet? Heck no. It’s New Year’s Eve and fireworks are blasting the night skies all over our neighborhood. Fireworks are legal in Harris County. It’s mayhem.

 Okay, New Year’s Day has arrived, a quiet day for most people. But most people don’t have a son whose birthday is January 2^nd. We do. He has had some doozies when it came to birthday dinner requests. One notable year, he asked for pepperoni pizza and for everybody to get two cans of soda! Now that he’s middle-aged himself and lives far away, we’re off the hook for the extra sodas.

 As a special added attraction, our Brooklyn grandkids (8 and 12) are coming solo for a visit from the 26^th to the 31^st. Fun is planned, tickets are purchased, and it’s coming together. But there is a lot to do to get ready.

 In the past, January also contained my grandmother’s birthday on January 3. And three of my brothers have birthdays on the 7^th, 8^th, and 9^th. Those birthdays require virtually nothing of me nowadays, although we did travel to Arizona for my oldest brother’s 80^th birthday two years ago. A fun time, totally worth the travel bother!

 But new birthdays have happened: our two granddaughters’ birthdays are on December 3^rd and 5^th! So, let’s count it up. From December 1^st through January 9^th, my family (including family of origin) celebrates 8 birthdays, a wedding anniversary, two major, multi-day holidays that require gift giving and out-of-town company for five days. Is it any wonder that I’m exhausted thinking about it?

Who am I kidding? The joy of celebrating with family and friends far outweighs the hassles of the season. Even when I’m falling behind, and I get slower at this stuff every year, I love the outcomes.

 However many events you may be celebrating this season, I hope your life is as overflowing with love and fun as mine.

 From our busy, busy house to yours,

Ciao

 

 

It Starts with Befuddlement

 My daughter Alix and son-in-law Adam recently discovered a slowly leaking pipe. It had flooded their kitchen, essentially destroying it from the inside out. Hearing about their disaster caused a set of awful memories to resurface for me.

Over the last 10 years, Michael and I have experienced three floods inside our house. Yes, that’s three and yes, inside floods, not nature-caused floods. “How could this have happened?” you might ask. Short answer: in 2015, a faulty toilet in our bathroom overflowed while we were taking my mother to dinner on Valentine’s Day; in 2019, the infamous Texas freeze, as in “when Hell freezes over” struck and 6 of our copper pipes froze and split; and, in 2023, the valve on a pipe in our guest bathroom cracked and spewed water while we slept.

 Most people never get to experience an event like this, so I thought I would walk you through the experience. Flood discovery, I have found, follows a script. The initial squelching step into unexpected water is the WTF? moment of befuddlement. The experience is so unique (at least the first time) that you can’t comprehend it. This is quickly followed by the “oh sh*t” moment of panic, when comprehension kicks in and you realize there’s water where water should never be.

 Remember the old Marlon Brando movie A Street Car Named Desire? There’s a scene where he bellows in desperation, “Hey, Stella! Stella!” This Stella moment is the next step in the flood experience. You yell frantically for your spouse so they can share this astonishing moment with you.

 Once the shouting is over, reality sets in and the second moment of panic arrives. How do you stop the water? Where is the water even coming from? Do you need to shut down the whole system or just a local pipe? Where is the shut-off valve for the house? Where would that local pipe shut-off even be?

 When your partner joins you, you have the opportunity to re-experience the WTF? and “Oh sh*t” moments through their eyes as they take in the scene in shocked disbelief. However, instead of becoming an occasion of solidarity, it becomes the “Do something!” moment where your spouse expects you to fix it. This is similar to being the person who finds the dog pooh, the hairball, or the child covered in peanut butter. You found it, you own it.

 While you are attending to water shut off, you get to give your partner their own personal hell. “Call the insurance company!” Now they can have a moment of panic. Who do I call? What’s the phone number? Where did I put the policy? Who did we even buy insurance from this year?

 It will seem like forever, but before long the water will stop flowing and the insurance carrier will be alerted. If they’re good, they’ll have a remediation team on the way within hours, even if it’s the middle of the night. If you aren’t lucky this way, it may be a few frustrating days before a remediation company shows up. We’ve had it happen both ways.

 Meanwhile, you will spend frantic hours picking up the God-awful number of items that are on your floor, in the water or threatened by it. You will struggle to remember what this stuff is and why the hell it’s on the floor in the first place. Don’t even try; just pick it up as quickly as you can. Many wet items can be salvaged. Sadly, others can’t be. It’s amazing how quickly water can erase years of living.

 There are moments of grief and loss coming, but don’t get ahead of yourself. You have to stay focused on rescuing whatever you can and working with the remediation company on an action plan, because once the loss part hits you, you will likely be too depressed to do anything except the bare minimum.

 When I spoke to Alix after they discovered their flood, she expressed the very same stages of disaster coping that I experienced. I think this process is universal and applies to all kinds of disasters, but I can’t prove it. I was happy, though, that I could tell her about the end of the flood disaster cycle, something she won’t see for several months I’d guess.

 When it’s all over, you do not have a return to normal. No, you have brand-new stuff. The walls are rebuilt and repainted. The flooring is new and spiffy. The cupboards that you have banged around for 10 or 15 years are new and have features that put the old ones to shame, like pull-out shelves. Damaged furniture is replaced.

 You have had a significant remodeling job done and your insurance company footed most of the bill. Yes, the deductible is a bear, but it’s not as much money as a new kitchen or living room or bedroom or take-your-pick would have been. There, doesn’t that make you feel better? Not yet? Give it time, happier days are just around the corner.

 

 

The Season of Dread

 It is the season of dread for anyone who has to send gifts to another city for the holidays. Not only do you have to decide on the gifts you want to give, wrap those gifts and package them up, but you have to relinquish them to the not-so-tender ministrations of the US Postal Service or another carrier to get them to their destination. And those mailing or shipping services cost an arm and a leg these days.

 Over the years, I have mailed Christmas gifts to people in Minnesota, North Dakota, California, New York, Oregon, Missouri, Arizona, and Texas. Probably some other places that escape me at the moment. I have sent a LOT of packages into the void. Most of them have arrived, but it isn’t guaranteed.

 A package of gifts for my granddaughter Heaven, who was three at the time, was waylaid at a post office 60 or so miles from her small Texas town. Because of holiday closures, she got her Christmas gifts on January 3^rd. It’s heartbreaking to try to explain to a toddler that the presents really are coming … someday.

 A package to my friend in Minneapolis got misplaced by USPS one year. She received the package weeks after Christmas. This occurred before package tracking became a thing, and neither of us knew what had happened. Plenty of frustration over that, although the package eventually arrived.

 Another package, sent to my brother, made so many circuits around the country that by the time he received the box of candy, it was a huge, misshapen lump of chocolate in the corner of the manila envelope. The box it started out in had been beaten to a flat pulp as it was thrown from truck to truck, sack to sack.

 A greeting card with a gift card inside, sent to a granddaughter in Oregon, disappeared completely, the generous gift spent by a postal thief. I stopped sending gift cards after that, deciding that no one would know if I slipped a check inside a card. Just the other day, I heard on the news that I shouldn’t do that either – bad actors were stealing them for check washing scams. I guess we’re down to electronic payment apps now.

 Amazon (and other online ordering) became the apparent answer to these holiday mailing and shipping woes. Yes, the relatives on the receiving end would have to do the gift wrapping for us, but the gifts would get there quickly for the most part and free for people like me with Prime accounts. Yay, maybe.

 Last Friday, my Brooklyn granddaughter turned 12. After several conversations with her and with her parents, we identified two gifts that she’s really like that fit our budget. Six days before her birthday, I ordered them from Amazon and happily learned they would be delivered in three days, plenty of time for the parents to get them wrapped before the big day.

 I got an email telling me that the package was out for delivery on the appointed day. But it never arrived. Although Amazon’s tracking persisted in telling me the package was out for delivery for days after the specified date, my order record online said simply, “Your delivery is running late.” It still says that a week later, while the billing information claims the order is complete.

The annual ordeal may be different, but it isn’t gone. Now it is the dread of trying to get help for an online purchase from a system so unresponsive and convoluted that it’s almost impossible to solve anything. You can’t connect with a person right away ever. I embarked today on a quest to locate my granddaughter’s birthday presents by asking the Amazon AI for help.

 Here are the opening words of every single response the AI made to me today: “I understand your concern…” “I understand your frustration…” “I completely understand your urgency…” I understand your concern…” “I understand your concern…” “I understand your frustration…”  “I understand you’re looking for more information…”  Its answer to every one of my questions ended with some version of “Would you like me to process a refund?”

 After seven “nos” from me to the refund, and many additional questions from me trying to elicit useful information, the chatbot finally said the magic words “Looks like we need to get more help.”

Segue to the human agent.  

 I won’t bore you with the list of unhelpful, nonsensical, or redundant words the agent subjected me to after we connected. I suspect English is not their native language. The agent finally assured me that the estimated delivery will be tomorrow. Okay, phew. Tomorrow is great. Before I ended the chat session, the agent gave me this final sentiment: “Thank you for your patience and understanding. If the item will not showed tomorrow, please contact us back so that we can check our availbale [sic] options in here.”

 Yes, it is the season of dread for gift givers—because no matter how we send them, the gifts always carry a little gamble.

Ciao