It’s been quite a morning here.  I pulled out the long underwear.  I never remember to keep track of when I do that each year but I do think it’s earlier this year.  I’ve been cold for a week, huddled in front of the space heater, moaning to everyone who would listen.  The world is divided into people who love the onset of cold weather and those of us who don’t.  An indecent number of my friends are ecstatic and I’m huddled in front of the space heater quietly loathing them.

After donning the long underwear, a turtleneck and warm pants, I drove to the supermarket where I bought butter, sour cream, avocados, cucumbers, and two Powerball tickets.  I was behind a man and his two young sons who threw a $20 bill at the lottery machine and walked away with 10 numbers.

Went to the gas station and went inside to pay in cash (it’s 20 cents a gallon cheaper if you give them cash) and was behind a woman who was buying Powerball tickets, some for which she chose the numbers and some for quick picks.  She was also having the cashier check her old tickets to see if she had won anything (she hadn’t).  I was a little tight-lipped by the time I got to the register but the cashier was tight-lipped over gritted teeth. I was a little chirpy and happy but she gave me the look and I subsided.

The rest of the way home I was thinking of what I would do when I realized I had the winning ticket (like !.7 billion dollars) and smiled all the time.  First, I would phone two girlfriends and ask for their Social Security numbers.  They would know that meant I had a winning ticket and was turning in our three names as the winners. Second, I would phone my attorney and ask him what to do next, in what order.  Then I would phone my accountant.

For the rest of the day I will imagine many scenarios of what I will do with my winnings.  I may even write about it.  It’s such fun to be rich for a day.  

I’m also going to watch Waking Ned Devine, a funny movie made in Ireland in 1999, about a lottery win.

It’s been several weeks since two cops parked their SUV on railroad tracks, then placed a prisoner in the SUV on the railroad tracks, and left it on the railroad tracks long enough for a train to hit it.

I still can’t come up with a single reason that an adult, however diminished their cognitive abilities, would park on railroad tracks. Ever. Under any circumstances.

As a small child I knew to avoid railroad tracks and doubt that at age seven I would have parked my bicycle on railroad tracks.  And I was no brighter than the other seven-year-olds on the block.

These were not seven year olds.  They were adults.  What were they thinking?

Never mind.

The big news this morning is about Twitter, Elon Musk, and Musk’s competition Zuckerberg, along with the failure of Metaverse under Zuckerberg’s command. Most of which doesn’t even compute for me.

Last night I cancelled my Twitter account.  I only joined so I could read the Balloon Juice front pagers and quickly discovered what a time and energy sink it was after I read their posts.  I learned nothing of import although I did occasionally enjoy and/or laugh at some of the animal posts.  Musk’s purchase of Twitter made it easy to leave.

Twenty or more years ago I was on Facebook for three months.  At two months and three weeks I realized Facebook took me right back to being 15 years old, in high school.  I literally felt the same way I remember feeling almost every minute I was on the high school campus: not pretty enough, not busty enough, not popular, not well-dressed enough, not to mention that I was so self-centered in my misery, I assumed that any laughter I heard from any direction, was at my expense.

Looking at photos from that time I see that I was actually cute/pretty, my clothes looked like everyone else’s, and I didn’t have big boobs which became an advantage as an adult because clothes look better on women with small breasts.

So, whatever it was on Facebook that took me back to some of the most unhappy years of my life, I decided I did not need in my early old age. That was my experience of social media until 2020.  In June that year I took an online photography course and the instructor set up an Instagram account where we could post our photos.  I signed up for an account which I made private so people have to get my permission to follow me. I only have about 30 followers and we all post photographs of our pets, our families, and interesting photos we take of anything and everything.  No influencers in the people I follow or who follow me.

My default photo is the sky scape out my front door.  I live in a walkout basement apartment facing due west, overlooking ranch land, foothills, a swath of the central valley, the coastal range and that huge ever-changing sky. Next come cats, flowers, trees, books I particularly enjoyed reading.  Nothing is important, only half the photos are composed and deliberate, posted for the two or three people still there from the photography class. 

Almost all the requests I get from people who want to follow me are from influencers, sellers of fake money, life coaches, all manner of people I would never talk to in real life and have no time for in virtual life.

I don’t know what category blogs fall into.  I still read them, mainly Balloon Juice which I read first thing every day and check on throughout the day until I shut down the computer early evening.  It’s a full service blog—politics, pets, cooking, travel, music, you name it, there has been a post about it. It keeps me informed about politics, as well as introducing me to books, movies, TV, and other blogs I might enjoy. Commenters live in many countries on several continents although I confess that I don’t read many of the threads of comments because I’m a slow reader and don’t have the time.

More than you ever wanted to know about my life online.

There was rejoicing this week when the heart of a pig was successfully transplanted into a human.

My first thought was, “And they killed the pig to do this.”

Once again the life of a two-legged animal was determined to have more value than the life of a four-legged animal.

No four-legged animal was invited to join the discussion about the ethics or morality of killing one animal to benefit another.  The pig wasn’t consulted.  It did not volunteer to sacrifice itself.  It did not consent.

And then, several days after the rejoicing came another discussion.  The recipient of the pig’s heart might not be worthy.  In his past he inflicted grievous harm on another human.

To me, that is an entirely different subject.  The initial argument rates the value of one life form against another.  I think all life has value, equal value.  Any value beyond that basic level is a construct of the human mind.

For me, the life of the man who received the pig’s heart has the same value today as it did at the moment of his birth, no more and no less than the value of the life of the pig.

If I were to choose one word to describe the former president, Donald J. Trump, his three oldest children (and son-in-law), all the people in his administration, and all the people surrounding him for most of his life, that word would be tawdry, which my online dictionary defines as:

showy but cheap and of poor quality; sordid or unpleasant.

A friend recently sent a link to a Michelle Goldberg column titled “We Should All Know Less About Each Other.”

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/01/opinion/facebook-social-media-problems.html

Goldberg was writing about knowing each other “online” and quoted heavily from a study by a Duke University professor and colleagues who paid Twitter users who identified as either Democrats or Republicans to follow particular Twitter accounts for a month.  Participants didn’t know it but Democrats were assigned to follow a bot account that retweeted messages from prominent Republican politicians and thinkers while Republicans followed a bot account that retweeted Democrats.

The team wondered if getting people to engage online with ideas they wouldn’t otherwise encounter might moderate their views.  The opposite happened.  Republicans became more conservative, Democrats more liberal.

Goldberg ended her most excellent column, “we might be able to tolerate each other more if we heard from each other less.”

Her column reminded me of a recent experience in my life.  I took two small oil paintings to a local framer to see what he would charge to frame them.  A friend had recommended him and warned me that he is a very trump Republican. Before going to his workshop I had spent the previous three hours with good friends having lively conversations, drinking great coffee, and eating delicious blackberry coffee cake.  In addition, since Dec. 4, 2020 I have been sitting with Gil Fronsdal, an amazing Buddhist teacher, Monday through Friday.  He leads guided meditations from 7-7:30 a.m., followed by a 15-minute Dharma talk.  For the last few months his emphasis has been on taking our practice into the world, offering everyone we encounter kindness, respect, and compassion.

So, in a fabulously good mood and knowing what to expect, I drove to the framer’s studio.  I had rehearsed a statement, “I don’t discuss politics or religion, ever,” and practiced smiling as I said it.  I parked behind his delivery van and noted his bumper stickers (Everything WOKE Turns To Shit, and Make American Great Again).

His three Russell Terriers announced me and he came to the door to welcome me (I’d made an appointment).  I went into his shop and while he looked at the paintings and chose some material for me to look at I observed the large signed Trump photograph on the wall along with numerous examples of his work.  We discussed what I wanted for framing, he showed me several options, made suggestions I liked and once we agreed on styles and colors he wrote an invoice, then walked me outside.  He asked me if I would like some fresh tomatoes and of course I said yes, but turned down the offer of zucchini.  He told me how he makes lasagna using sliced zucchini for noodles.  I noticed that he had planted zinnias along the side of the house facing the driveway and felt a wave of compassion for this man who was offering beauty to the world in a small way.

Our conversation was general. Several years ago, he left Sacramento where he had lived and done framing for 30 years, he should have left sooner, nearly lost his house.  His three dogs are all rescues and I heard a little bit of their stories.  He didn’t offer any political opinion and I offered no openings.

Had I met him online, seen his workshop with the photo of Trump, seen the sentiments on his bumper stickers, I would have thought unpleasant things about him and would never have taken work to him.  I would have actively disliked him.

I’m not very involved with social media.  Not on Facebook but I do have an Instagram account, mostly to post photos of trees, sunrises and sunsets, book recommendations, pictures of my cats.  I have in the past posted the occasional sharply worded political opinion and after reading Goldberg’s column I decided I won’t do that again.  My account is private and I have only 40 followers, several of them fellow amateur photographers I met online during the photography class we took together.  They are from all over, one in England.

I have a blog with a very small following.  I get a few comments which I must moderate, and nine out of ten are Russian bots.  Really!  A circumstance I share with all WordPress bloggers.

I think about the man who is framing my pictures frequently.  We will never be friends, break bread together, or probably even ever see each other outside his shop.  And, we are not enemies.  I like him and I think he likes me.

That wouldn’t happen online.

Dana Houle wrote on Twitter (which I read via Balloon Juice, my favorite blog and the first thing I read every morning of my life), “Longterm for my kids and for the world nothing matters more than climate change.  But for this moment, nothing will matter more for my life & my children’s lives than this,”  Breaking news NYT–F.D.A. regulators said the Pfizer vaccine’s benefits outweigh its risks for 5- to 11-year-olds.

My attention went right to the word”risks” and I asked (Yes, I do talk to myself and ask myself questions), “What were the risks of the polio vaccine for me, vaccinated in 1956 in the auditorium of my high school?”  I didn’t have a reaction and I don’t recall that any of my friends did either.  I do recall a cousin having polio in the late 1940s and I recall a friend in my grade who was crippled by polio, wearing a leg brace in order to walk.

I just read some history of the polio vaccine and there were reactions in some children and some deaths.  Also, in 1953, before vaccinations, there were 35,000 recorded cases of polio.  By 1957 half the population of this country had received at least one dose of the vaccine.  Like now, they were recommending three doses.

So, by 1957 approximately 86 million people had received at least on shot.  The epidemic was stopped IN THE AMERICAS a few years later.  Back then, enough Americans got shots that we stopped having cases of polio in this country.

Do not misunderstand me.  There ARE (why does WordPress not provide a way to underline? FFS) risks and for those whose children died or had reactions leaving them with long term illness or damage, the risks turned out to have tragic results.  When I imagine myself being the parent of such a child I can feel the agony, the anger, the permanent “if only I…” in my thoughts.  No one wants to be the exception and this is certainly one of those times.  And we have never had a year since when 35,000 people died of polio.

I wonder if we will ever be able to say that about COVID?

Two decades ago I went through 40 years of photographs, separating out all those of my former step-children and their father, intending to send them to his daughter if I could locate her.

I’d divorced their father, an abusive alcoholic, in 1974 and hadn’t seen his daughter, S, since.  A couple of years after the divorce I moved to Minden, Nevada, into a small rental house of my mother’s, located next door to the larger house she shared with Tom, my stepfather.

My stepson, M, would occasionally visit me in Nevada.  Ten years younger than I, he had suffered drug and alcohol problems since his teens.  When his father and I divorced he was 24 years old, immature and confused.  He was also strong and a hard worker.

When he would visit he would stay next door with my folks, helping them out with yard and house maintenance.  He ate with them and in the evening they would sit on the porch, talking, smoking, having an after dinner drink–wine for my mother, bourbon and water for the guys.

Sometimes he would stay a month, sometimes six or eight months.  He would eat and sleep well and get his color back, working outside, working hard.

Then, he would go back to Reno or California and we wouldn’t hear anything for months or a year or two.  Over a 30-year period he came back five or six times.

In 1998 we hadn’t seen M for more than a year.  My folks asked if I knew where he was, could I contact him, see if he could come out for a couple of months that summer.  I found his number in the Reno phone book but when I called, the number had been disconnected.  I phoned my former brother-in-law to see if he knew anything and was told that M had died of a drug overdose the previous October, at his mother’s house in Sparks where he’d been living, broke and out of work.

Oh, what joy, to reread a favorite book for the third time and discover it’s as good as I remembered.

Fifth Business, by Robertson Davies, was published in the 1970s, the first in a trilogy.  It follows a teacher, a sociopath and a magician, from their childhoods in a small Canadian village to their middle ages in Toronto and around the world. That does not begin to describe the richness, humor, and caring of Davies’s prose.  I read it last week and was sad to have it end.  I plan to pick up books two and three next week at the library.

I read John Steinbeck in the late 1950s, along with Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, among others. In the early 2000s I reread Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and it was so good the second time around.  I tried Hemingway shortly after but he didn’t hold up for me although I loved his books back in the 1960s.  I haven’t reread any Fitzgerald yet but a good friend tells me I should and that I will be rewarded.

Steinbeck was a brilliant story teller whose prose lit up the lives of his characters and their environment.  Hemingway, for me, has a particular style that dominates the story, although I didn’t notice that 60 years ago.  I don’t detect a style in Steinbeck’s books, only locales and characters and flow.

I used to have a friend who had majored in American literature in the early 1960s and she considered Hemingway a standout, finding Steinbeck’s books uninteresting, not worth a reread.  And isn’t it a treat that there are many, many excellent writers providing us with an enormous selection to suit our varied tastes.  

And lest anyone think I’m a snob, I read mostly murder mysteries with the occasional Regency or romance thrown in when I have to have a happy-ever-after ending.  Thank goddess for my more well-read friends who suggest novels I might otherwise miss.

I binge-watched Season 17 of Grey’s Anatomy last week and came away with a different view of the pandemic.  For 16 months I read statistics about the numbers of sick and dying and was shocked and outraged.

I was shocked by the Administration’s lies, the theft of PPE by the Trump Family Crime Cartel, the jingoism, the favoritism toward red states and red governors.  I was saddened by the statistics about the number of deaths and by the numbers of Indigenous, Black, and Hispanic people who died.

But somehow, the numbers never really landed for me until I watched Grey’s Anatomy.  It was as though I’d been looking at a brand new coloring book, all black and white line drawings.  After watching just a few episodes the drawings started being filled in with all the shades of people of color and a few white-flesh-colored people.

After spending an hour this morning reading about the numbers of deaths by race and ethnicity I learned that half the deaths were White people, probably mostly old White people.  Let’s say 300,000 White people died.  What percentage of the White population is that?  I don’t know and I’m pretty sure it’s not a very big percentage, unlike the percentages of Indigenous, Hispanic, and Black populations who died.

We are living through an historic event, a world-wide pandemic that is disproportionately killing People of Color and the poor.  We will never know for certain how many died of COVID-19 because of faulty reporting but we know it could have been fewer and we know that being white and not poor decreased our chances of dying.