Life on the "Farm"

Family life

#1 Grandson Tom turned 40 yesterday. For his 0th birthday, I remember buying him the newest novelty toy, the Teddy Ruxpin "talking" bear. I paid $50 for it. 

Today Tom is working in a job I cannot describe, but it has something to do with building and energy efficiency and compliance with government regulations, as near as I can tell. He researches, and writes papers, and presents them, I think. It's all very wonky, but he loves it and seems to be good at it. 

Assisted Living Life

I'm busy. Recently I posted a sign on the bulletin board in the mailroom saying that I would hem pants for free. Not long ago I bought a couple of pair of pants that needed hemming, and I discovered that I actually enjoyed doing it and that it was very simple. I got pleasure out of taking something that was frustrating to me and turning it into something that gave me great satisfaction. So I decided I would offer to shorten pants for anyone who wanted them. So far, only one person has showed up.

I'm enrolled in a bunch of OLLI (Oscher Lifelong Learning Institute) classes from UC Davis. I've been doing this for three quarters now and really like it. They are virtual classes on ZOOM with about 15 people in each class. Apparently, OLLI junkies (like me) turn up quarter after quarter in several classes. This time I'm taking classes on the Ocean, on AI, on Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, on reading the New Yorker, and a memoir class. I love making connections in the larger Davis community with bright and stimulating people from outside Atria. 

Friday afternoons, I lead a writing workshop here within Atria. An essay I wrote has evolved into a project to improve food and conditions in the dining room. The food quality has deteriorated precipitously, and little accommodation is mad for low-sodium diets. Acoustics in the dining room are so bad that dinner table conversation is nearly impossible because some idiot painted over the acoustic ceiling tiles making them reflect rather than absorb sound. My essay about these conditions was so well received that we formed a committee to formally approach executive regional management. We seem to have been heard and I expect some action soon.

Tomorrow afternoon I will play bridge. A group ranging from 4 to 8 players meet three times a week. The games can only loosely be called bridge. We make so many allowances for our various enfeeblements that Charles Goren would surely not recognize the game. Some can't see and mix up the suits, some can't hear, some have memory issues and can never remember what trump is, what's the bid, whose lead it is, and what has been played, some with shaky hands frequently drop their cards and few retain the dexterity to pick them up. But we tolerate and compensate for each other and still manage to have a good time. 

Political Notes

Mariann Edgar Budde

Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde at the National Cathedral during the National Prayer Service attended by Trump, Vance, and their wives directly addressed the President and asked him to "have mercy on the people in our country who are scared right now." She mentioned immigrants and LGBTQIA. He later vilified her on Truth Social. Maybe she is our latter day MLK. She Shall Overcome.

Tuesday morning, I participated in a phone bank coordinated by Indivisible Yolo. I called Senators Padilla and Schiff as well as congressman Thompson to ask them to oppose cabinet appointments of Patel, Hegseth, Vught, and Noem. Not included was Bondi whom I can't stand simply for her steadfast refusal to say that Biden won the 2020 election.

 Trump pulled out of WHO and Paris Climate Accords.

 Around 10,000 refugees have had their flights cancelled after Trump signed an executive order suspending their entry.

The felon-in-chief rescinded Biden's executive order 14087 lowering the prices on several drugs.

Vivek Ramaswamy axed from "department of government efficiency" by Musk. VR went back to Ohio with his tail between his legs ostensibly to prep for a run for governor of Ohio.

#47 signed an unconstitutional executive order that aims to deny birthright citizenship to certain children born in the United States.

Oligarchs are buying up DC property.

All federal DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) staff put on paid leave and all government publications and websites were ordered to remove all mention of DEI.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Here's a recent Facebook post in which Dianna Genteman says she would like to read an example of something I consider good writing and something bad. I thought I'd throw in something ugly, just for good measure and because I think I have something that fills the bill.

The Good: This little piece was written in 2002 as part of an application for a residency at Norcroft, a Writer's Retreat on the north shore of Lake Superior, near Grand Marais. I like it because it feels so true. It may not be of great general interest, but it worked, I was granted a two-week residency at a time in my life when it was desparately needed. I reread the piece today as I contemplate applying for a residency at Hedgebrook, also a retreat for women writers, I see that little has changed, little has been accomplished and I still write beneath the portraits of my female ancestors in a sunny south-facing room.

Pianisssimo, Please

     I write for illumination. I come closer to seeing what I know and what life has taught me when I try to express it. I write to be clever. I write to record something I know that someone else might want to know sometime in the future. I write to repay the written gifts of my predecessors. And most often, I don't know why I write, I just do; it's part of my biology. I've always done it.

     I've collected two bookshelves of my journals. These take the form of written and photographic essays, diaries or travelogs, depending on the year and my mood. They are bound, loose-leaf, or on scraps of paper in manila envelopes. In the past five years, I've felt compelled to bring some of this material together in a way others would want to read. Struggling to determine what would make my life seem interesting to others, I investigated other interesting lives. Hundreds of wonderful women writers including Patricia Hampl, Barbara Kingsolver, Amy tan, Anne Lamott, and Sylvia Plath inspire me. Motivated by great teachers like Lisa Schlesinger at the University of Iowa Summer Workshop and Margo Perin at the University of California at Santa Cruz, I am combining pieces of my life with pieces of my great-grandmother's life.

     But, because of the exigencies of daily life, it is difficult to focus and go into the deep places I must visit. As a 63-year-old single woman raising her orphaned grandsons, my writing time is perforated by the demands of the boys. Meals, chauffeuring, errands, refereeing, and time to love them lend a staccato rhythm to my writing time. I crave largo and pianissimo. My physical energy is exhausted while my mind races. 

     Time at Norcroft will allow me to focus my energy on my work. I can review the material I have written, make some determinations about what is worth incorporating, and decide where I need to go deeper. I will have the solitude necessary to get at those deeper places. Much of what I have written resembles a prose outline I must flesh out.

     I will continue working on my project whether or not I go to Norcroft. I will write for at least a small part of each day in my sunny south-facing room while the portraits of my female ancestors supervise from their posts on the wall. I will shut the French doors and pray that my need for solitude will be honored. My writing may not reach the depth I aim for, and it may take a lot longer to complete. Because of my age, I fear that competing demands for my time and energy will jeopardize completing my work. I worry that I won't finish it vbefore I die. But, I will write, because there is more to tell.

The Bad: Just silly and pointlesss.

Flying - Don’t Tell Mom

      I learned to fly at around six, I can’t remember exactly when, but I know my top front teeth 

had already fallen out and the news ones had just come in. It started kind of gradual, on the stairs in front of the house, the ones made out of railroad ties that ran alongside the steep driveway and led up the hill to our curvy street. 

      I started learning to fly by skipping the bottom step every time I came down the stairs. It 

didn’t quite seem like I was jumping, because I landed real gentle in the leaves from the oak 

trees that covered the hillside. It was more like floating. I found I could skip two steps, then 

three and then four. Five got a little tricky. By trial and error, I learned that a little scissors kick 

in the middle of my flight got me safely to the landing, and by reaching out and catching myself 

on the tree at the bottom, I could keep my balance. Soon, I discovered that with three kicks, I 

cleared the whole flight of fourteen steps, without touching down even once. Still, I didn’t yet 

think I was flying. I just thought it was a little trick I could do, something that would probably 

come in handy, but something I had better not tell Mom about. There were some things she just 

didn’t seem to want to know. Like about the man who parked his car on the street a few houses 

away every afternoon and drank beer. She didn’t want me to talk about him.

     When I learned to fly back up the stairs, I knew I had a special secret. Because the street was 

uphill from our house, I would go up there and practice safely out of sight of Mom. I discovered 

I could fly higher by flapping my arms and faster by kicking my feet. It was a lot of work, but as 

it turned out it probably saved my life more than once.

     One time when I was just about to practice, the man drinking beer got out of his car and 

started to chase me. The way he looked at me nearly scared me to death. I started to fly away, but 

I couldn’t get high enough. He caught the heel of my black patent leather shoe with his hand, and 

he was looking up my dress. I knew it was wrong and that Mom wouldn’t like it. But I kicked 

my shoe off anyway and flew up just a little higher. Mom made me go to my room for coming 

home without my shoe.

     Another time it was real scary when there was a big fire at an empty barn near our house. I 

don’t think I started it, but it burned in a circle all around me and I had to fly over the flames to 

get away from it. Mom was real mad when I came home with the edges of my dress burned. She 

made me promise not to tell anyone what had happened.

    One evening, it was getting dark and I heard Mom call me. I didn’t think she could see me as 

she stood on the front porch calling, so as I ran down the steep driveway, I decided to fly just a 

little. I put my arms out and reached for the sky. As I ran faster and faster and jumped a little, I 

could feel the wind sweeping my hair back. I tried swinging one arm around in circles. I pulled 

my sweater up behind my shoulders like a Batman cape. And then I fell and broke my new front 

teeth. I never flew again.

 

The Ugly: This doesn't need explanation, it's just ugly.

Living in an Old Woman’s Body

Some parts don’t work;

Some have retired.

The womb is still,

No blood flows,

A blessing for sure.

Desire survives,

But few believe it.

Dried up old woman

Tits to the navel.

Wrinkles and creams,

Mirror as enemy,

Reflects my mother, not I,

Turkey as kin,

Botox is my friend.