tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65948667998224798482024-02-18T21:46:20.742-08:00Scosche of ClassIt occurs to meScosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-35110394240555578332021-12-29T08:56:00.001-08:002021-12-29T08:56:10.249-08:00<p> There's a bittersweet quality to this post. For ten years I've been warmly supported by my reader-followers at Scosche of Class, but I now find it necessary to retire this blog. The better news is that I have begun a new chapter with my Wordpress blog, JT McKenna Writes. (It promises greater "functionality" - let's hope that's true!) Please trek on over and sign up to receive automatic email notifications whenever a new post is published. Let the conversation continue, friends!</p><p><a href="https://jtmckennawrites.com">JT McKenna Writes</a><br /></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-6632938188620904552021-11-30T05:05:00.002-08:002021-11-30T10:46:16.898-08:00The Idea of Fairness in the Context of Dog Ownership<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOD1363OLNZ29cGcgpWs6aTyEfNXfOXWl8LCHpd3DTpEfgiFkReQkD9xR0niO9hz1I_UtbF1zsT1BXDZt4GRpUW72yDBe5Fcz-VyZcYpcVuZsM5q6O04prhqeRLyb_CzRTYZEaJekwhA/s2048/35614575-13E9-402A-8A89-3AFE9D2CEDFE_1_201_a.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1621" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOD1363OLNZ29cGcgpWs6aTyEfNXfOXWl8LCHpd3DTpEfgiFkReQkD9xR0niO9hz1I_UtbF1zsT1BXDZt4GRpUW72yDBe5Fcz-VyZcYpcVuZsM5q6O04prhqeRLyb_CzRTYZEaJekwhA/w158-h200/35614575-13E9-402A-8A89-3AFE9D2CEDFE_1_201_a.heic" width="158" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I’m curious to know if other dog owners do this: if I give one dog a treat, I have to give the other one a treat, and it must be of equal value. It isn’t as if I don’t know that within three seconds the slighted one will have forgotten the whole affair and already be scampering into the family room to play with a toy that he or she has spotted in the center of the rug, the same one that he or she abandoned six seconds earlier to score that treat I was offering. Or, if I spend 10 minutes playing fetch with one, I will be reassuring the other for the entire 10 minutes that they’ll get their turn and can reasonably expect 10 minutes of fetch play.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Why do we persist with this idea of fairness when they don’t care (at least as soon as the “injustice” has terminated)? I invite you to reflect on our practice of fairness with our canine companions; can you think of your own examples?<o:p></o:p></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-2816188689217743272021-11-06T13:38:00.058-07:002021-12-09T16:10:04.871-08:00 Mastering Those Boxes and Boxes of Photos<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">Let me begin by declaring that I’m as sentimental as they come. Be that as it may, I recently realized that the number of photos that I’ve taken or acquired has reached unmanageable proportions, and leaves me with no choice but to thin the population. Just the number of <i>boxes</i> has me in an anxious state of mind. A <i>plan </i>- what to save and how to save it - is what I need.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">We save photographs because they provide us with fond memories of events and people; they’re the perfect - and instant - trigger. There are, of course, secondary reasons for collecting or saving photos, but my hope here is to curate a kick-ass family photo collection. I no longer want to approach any given box of photos with dread or even resignation. It should be a pleasurable experience to pull out a box or album and meander down memory lane. It would be especially helpful if all those photos were <i>organized. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">Today’s the day that I implement my new approach and share my “wisdom” with all of you!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>Observations:</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">1. So many otherwise beautiful photographs are ruined by the presence of utility lines or cars or both.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">2. Ten million photos of one trip may be meaningful or precious, but only to the person who took that trip. Is more necessarily better?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">3. Ten million baby pictures of your first-born may be meaningful or precious, but only to you. . . and probably your first-born. Regardless of your first-born’s opinion on the matter, this is a case where “less is more”. Just like they do with Christmas presents, children - especially those further down the ladder - keep careful track of the numbers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">4. Ten million pictures of your only child could be reduced by 95% and no one would notice a substantial difference.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">5. I sometimes will save a photo that has several family members just because it has several family members in it, not because it’s a good picture. (I wonder if I’m trying to prove that we “get together” on a regular basis. It may also be that I unconsciously place higher value on photos of large groups than those with only one or two people.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">6. There are just some people in your family that will always ruin the group picture, either naturally or by design.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">7. There are also some family members that, try as they might, they can’t seem to look normal in any picture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>Recommendations:</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">1. With all photos that you intend to keep or scan, identify - if known - who, where, and when on the back. Do it now! (You’ll never get to it later because it becomes a real hassle when you have dozens and dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands, that need it.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">2. Give or throw away duplicates.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">3. Throw away photos that have uncomfortable memories. (If the uncomfortable memory is one you shouldn’t or don’t want to revisit, that’s just masochism, and some memories are so uncomfortable that you won’t need the physical reminder - you’ll remember the moment anyway.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">4. Like with #3, throw away photos of people whose presence in your life have made it less joyous.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">5. Scan photos that will have enduring meaning. (Hopefully, you’ll understand which ones fall into that category.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">6. If you inherit someone else’s trip photos, decide on only one or two to save (if any). Remember, the trip was <i>their </i>memory, not yours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">7. If you acquire photos of ancestors, scan them, even if you don’t know the subjects at that moment. If you know which family they belonged to, send them on their way in that direction. Historical societies are great repositories for old photos with known connections.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">8. Save individual photos that stand apart for their artistic quality; frame them and create or add to a gallery. Don’t leave that for some vague future point in time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">9. Make a separate pile for the photos that you think would be more appreciated by others. (At the end of your re-organization, you can mail those with personalized notes or cards.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">10. Save one embarrassing photo of each member of your family and let them know of its existence. (You may need it down the road; get what I’m saying?)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>When you find it hard to part with a photo, consider:</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">1. If the feet &/or top of the head are cut off, toss it (even if you find yourself saying, “Aw, but that’s Tom dancing with his niece Lindsey; they look so <i>cute</i>!”)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">2. Is the photo flattering to the featured subjects? (Closed eyes are not flattering to anyone, by the way.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">3. Is it blurry? (You should know what to do with it.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">4. Is it featuring the back of someone’s head? (Even if you know that that’s the only photo you have of your great-uncle Stuart, it’s not really of any value.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">5. Is there no hope of identifying the subject(s)? (Why are you saving it?) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">6. Would this picture be more meaningful to someone else? (If so, give it to him/her.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">7. If the picture is essentially only a record of what everyone brought to a gathering, it is of low value. (I’m amazed at how many photos I had of buffet settings.) Often, the array of food distracts enough to ruin an otherwise decent picture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in -4.5pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">8. Was the picture taken in the late 60's? (Yuh, you'll generally just want to remove any physical reminders of that brief era.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">Even if only a few of these ideas speak to you, you should be in a better place with your family photo collection. Hopefully, you’ve been inspired by my data-driven and very sciency observations and proven strategies tested across a broad swath of industry participants.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;">Good luck with your own photo collection project!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgox_GOWctbC7gOhBZqaLD-WSKV-fxJDaUkkRH1P7ftZnOCR2YUqpkidgLdSKn7MnzIAzWCdMoxaJnGCzZfX845KUrbOQRimpS-5rSc4ehWxcT929mVBVvRf6v7bNbSS7nNheSCQMz5Pps/s2048/Exhibit+A+photo+not+worth+keeping.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgox_GOWctbC7gOhBZqaLD-WSKV-fxJDaUkkRH1P7ftZnOCR2YUqpkidgLdSKn7MnzIAzWCdMoxaJnGCzZfX845KUrbOQRimpS-5rSc4ehWxcT929mVBVvRf6v7bNbSS7nNheSCQMz5Pps/w320-h240/Exhibit+A+photo+not+worth+keeping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-44624375556203123992021-11-05T15:42:00.015-07:002021-12-09T16:11:59.732-08:00Standing at the Edge<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />Recently, while I was reviewing and sorting a boxful of old photos, I came across an envelope containing a series of aerial photos of a property that my mom and two of her siblings owned on the southern coast of Massachusetts. Manomet Bluffs, the neighborhood in which their house stood, continues to stand sentinel at the very margins of our east coast, stoically resisting the relentless pounding of the Atlantic Ocean, but steadily surrendering, a clod or two at a time, its tenuous grasp. The photos I held in my hand made shockingly apparent that the little house on the bluff (affectionately - and always with droll effect - called “Blind Man’s Bluff” because my uncle was blind) was at great risk of tumbling into the sea.</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">They kept up the gambit for ten years, filling their tiny home with treasures found on their beach-combing adventures directly below the house in the lee of the bluff. As much as they loved that perch with its constant ocean breezes, stunning views across Cape Cod Bay, and their “4:00 somewhere” outlook on life, they knew it was a matter of time before their back yard collapsed into the Atlantic. In the back of their minds, they must have known that their small-scale measures were inadequate; the salubrious, composted slurry that they mixed up daily in their kitchen and cast over the edge of the bluff was no doubt seasoned with a fervent sense of wishful thinking, maybe even swathed in a prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It’s not hard to imagine them examining closely, but with diminishing hope, for signs that their vegetable concoction had taken literal hold of the unstable bluff. After exhausting the typical homeowners’ efforts to arrest the advance of the ocean (in your desperation irrationality can be forgiven), with hearts heavy but minds clear, they sold their little piece of heaven. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /></span></span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemApzWx3RcmjoGbyf56Eln9_R9SR1PSbiElj1Ivzhg-t4eHikB58ZgtW9eee5mG96wOr_-EwCT14e5f6GEwBXZnFg2wdlALer3366Cu1SQ6Al0OX-2i5bm_8-geV1zi65hVgEedzs-es/s1468/Manomet+Bluff_%2540.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1191" data-original-width="1468" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemApzWx3RcmjoGbyf56Eln9_R9SR1PSbiElj1Ivzhg-t4eHikB58ZgtW9eee5mG96wOr_-EwCT14e5f6GEwBXZnFg2wdlALer3366Cu1SQ6Al0OX-2i5bm_8-geV1zi65hVgEedzs-es/w320-h260/Manomet+Bluff_%2540.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> I live ninety miles north of Manomet Bluffs, also on the coast, but, because I’m an especially cautious person - and a worrier - not right on the water. When I take my dogs for their daily walk, I often alternate between the rail trail right behind my house and the Salisbury Beach State Reservation, 2 miles away. When the cold weather creeps into our region, usually by the end of October, I have a selfish expectation that “The Rez” will - as ever - revert to the quiet sanctuary that encourages private thought and a solitary appreciation of its natural gifts. One lap around the empty campground with a slight deviation out to the boat launch where Black Rock Creek meets the Merrimack River gives me just enough time to re-arrange my scattered thoughts, and, of course, re-invigorate me. My two dogs, likewise, lean into the activity, responding to the restorative qualities of The Rez. They’re eager (more so than I) to sprint along the seawall and cavort at river’s edge, maybe even lap at the briny water (which, of course, they’ll promptly throw up). The further away from the parking lot we move, the more immersed we become in our own pursuits. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> So, on this particular morning, I almost don’t notice the low grumbling sound from across the river. Looking over to Plum Island on the opposite bank, I can just make out the bobbing motion of a large piece of machinery as it excavates sand. Large excavators on a barrier beach attract attention that extends beyond the surrounding communities, but people with homes directly on the ocean (Plum Island sits at the confluence of the Atlantic Ocean and the Merrimack River) are the ones who live in a constant state of anxiety; weather forecasts, for them, hold as great an interest as professional sports, and this storm season has been an especially active one. In fact, as I’m squinting to see what’s happening on Plum Island, I remember that the meteorologists warned of a one-two punch with astronomically high tides and a storm well out to sea but still near enough to menace the coast. Curious, I steer the dogs onto the beach on the ocean side and stand mutely as I take in the scene - lobster traps and buoys, giant mounds of rocked, and random lumps of wood litter the sand. Looking north along the length of the beach, I’m alarmed by the magnitude of the damage, and this one wasn’t even a direct hit. Deep gouges have been carved by the punishing waves. In both the near distance and far, I see dangling stairways - the fragile connecting tissue between homes and their coveted spots on the beach - hovering well above the sand. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> None of this suggests a new pattern, it should be noted. Forty years ago, and ninety miles south of here, my mom and her two siblings were watching with similar apprehension as each storm pummeled their segment of the coast. And just like then, it serves to underscore that Mother Nature enjoys a lopsided advantage in her enduring battle with mankind. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">When you fall in love with the place you adopt as your home, whether that be on the ocean or a river or a prairie, you pay attention to physical changes. . . and you worry, or at least you <i>should </i>worry. Inasmuch as we’d like to rely on our planet’s adaptability, by continuing to invoke divine intervention (and if not that, then the ministrations of local, state, and even federal government), we fail to perceive the “use by” date; in other words, we risk everything by failing to heed environmental warnings. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">The Merrimack River, which I can see from my attic window, is always spoken of in terms of its ability to bounce back from adversity, the “Resilient Merrimack”, it’s often called. Surging, cascading, and gliding along its 117-mile course, it supplies over half a million people with drinking water, all the way up into central New Hampshire. Many of the cities throughout the Merrimack Valley, in fact, owe their very existence to this river. Follow the river inland and you pass through Haverhill, Lawrence, Lowell, on into New Hampshire and cities such as Nashua, Manchester, Hooksett, Concord, Franklin. None of these cities would have endured without the empowering waters of the Merrimack.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">As someone who is passionate about family history, I remain fascinated by one ancestral family’s migrations after arriving in the United States in the worst year of the Famine, 1848. My great-great-grandparents, Patrick and Mary Catherine McKenna, both textile mill operatives, moved with their five children from Portsmouth, New Hampshire to Lawrence, Massachusetts, then to Manchester, New Hampshire, and finally to Lowell, Massachusetts, all mill towns. Theirs was the quintessential immigrant experience, planting them - at least historically - in the center of one of our region’s most evocative narratives. The same river that carried contaminants to the sea also served as a conduit for thousands of factory operatives who each week, in an effort to escape the toxic air that they breathed <br /></span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">into their lungs all week long, journeyed by steamboat to the pier at Black Rocks. Whenever I pass by the spot along the river where steamboats used to disgorge their passels of day-trippers, I form a mental image of the smiling, joking 19<sup>th</sup> century travelers, giddily inhaling the sweet aroma of the Atlantic and sinking their weary feet into the therapeutic sands the moment they arrived. A single jagged line of barnacle- and kelp-encrusted wood pilings embroidered across the smooth sand is all that remains. There is enduring comfort in imagining, though, that my forbears, the McKennas, were part of the crowd that jostled with their full picnic baskets, eager to be among the first off the boat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /></span></span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiLtNIHjDnwFM3_EIejk8b6Lm6LEdZPMklQi7y_Am11JzvQsaoIlnVcA9V-sgiNjMaOHHlGVhCC0rAb-2v9oIdUR4BLWfJvBJarKiVfoIB53V7MPnY4VKIeEMjmdHW3fWrOLqtw4MLYpE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiLtNIHjDnwFM3_EIejk8b6Lm6LEdZPMklQi7y_Am11JzvQsaoIlnVcA9V-sgiNjMaOHHlGVhCC0rAb-2v9oIdUR4BLWfJvBJarKiVfoIB53V7MPnY4VKIeEMjmdHW3fWrOLqtw4MLYpE/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">We can be grateful that the factories’ practice of dumping their toxins directly into this vital resource for close to 150 years was halted by the Clean Water Act of 1972. Our robust but sorely distressed Merrimack has had time to recover, but - at the same time - as the beneficiaries who enjoy a much cleaner river, it is our tacit responsibility to (at minimum) remain alert to both the obvious and concealed threats to its health.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">Plum Island homeowners, I learn, in yet another effort to disrupt the sustained assault by the ocean, recently obtained a consequential legal dispensation that is permitting them to erect a barrier using giant rocks, and to install coil bags (along with wood pilings to immobilize the bags). Earlier efforts, involving the positioning of “Super Sacks”, were an unmitigated disaster; not only did they tend to rip apart, making the beach look like a dumping ground, but the general substance - plastic, tons upon tons of it, well, let’s just agree that coir, a natural alternative, is healthier for the environment. It’s not for me to pass judgment on beach homeowners’ determination to save their property. I would want to do the same. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">The little house high on Manomet Bluff, meanwhile, still stands. The vegetation clinging to its escarpment, too, has resisted - so far - the steady onslaught of severe storms. With no promising sign that the trend will reverse itself (in fact, the data make abundantly clear that ocean storms are becoming more intense and more frequent, and that sea levels are steadily rising); I nevertheless see it as a reminder of nature’s fighting spirit, and it gives me hope. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /><span> </span>I hold great reverence and gratitude for the gifts of nature that I enjoy - the image of a Northern Harrier as it glides silently above the expansive flat salt marshes, the sound of seagulls quarreling over a clam, the glistening and dancing surface of the river, the sweet smell of the ocean that never gets stale. I meanwhile stand humbled in the knowledge that as bountiful and generous and feisty as nature is, as resilient as it appears in some ways, it is also very fragile. Conservationists have it right, in my mind. They evaluate the needs and wants of us humans in the broader context of what is best for the environment, and you better believe that they are paying close attention to what the earth is trying to tell us. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><br /></span></span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WF9ZK6ni8iibR8yecJoFBznrVLLSPYpEuSAJ7VsVAFXajt9tXHsCceRk5_7tL4UukLegTUa7zTyC2KADwwIsyYzHQAjeSqeltvTbR6v72UCMJGV9i_nzZpi4qEFggE7xjMjaEpkgZzk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1635" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WF9ZK6ni8iibR8yecJoFBznrVLLSPYpEuSAJ7VsVAFXajt9tXHsCceRk5_7tL4UukLegTUa7zTyC2KADwwIsyYzHQAjeSqeltvTbR6v72UCMJGV9i_nzZpi4qEFggE7xjMjaEpkgZzk/" width="301" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;">It’s quite possible that I inherited my love of long views - the literal kind - from my mother. The house I grew up in was on a hill, and had 360° views; we could have our breath taken away by both sunrises and sunsets. It was possible that twice in a single day I’d be able to go to one of the windows in my bedroom, rest my chin on cupped hands, and let the colors at the horizon arrange and rearrange in front of my eyes like a kaleidoscope. Being able to put your mind on the far limits allows you to extrude the unpleasantness that life sometimes crowds in upon you. Your world transforms more easily into one of possibility. . . and hope. Similarly, for stakeholders who hope to achieve symbiosis with nature, it seems essential that we “see the forest”. As hard as it may be, in this instance we need to check our emotions and let reason prevail; put another way, we must strike the balance between measures that, say, provide relief for built landscapes and those that aim to protect the natural landscape. There’s no easy answer, and sometimes when you’re the one standing at the edge of a cliff, the long view is perhaps the only one that serves your interests. (Unless, of course, you have greater faith in divine intervention, in which case you might want to queue up a few healing prayers for Mother Mary, and pray for a miracle. Or hedge your bets, and do both.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span face="Candara, sans-serif"> </span></b></p><p></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-45715357051898273742021-08-19T07:31:00.005-07:002021-08-28T14:39:05.042-07:00Is Owning a Camper in my Future? (August 19, 2021)<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboqgSJhOm2L3kTjhs-S35HZ_ZN507uS1_l2N_qbVILffNOknUDuq09cMBS8ifpic_jGWmZYrQY4AZCQ27zPzmA0QR94uA08hN2fvrNIVRuj-oHB3dVIPV0Nz2fN_jE0zCQI_MeE8KEw4/s2048/shower+caddy+for+camping.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1611" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjboqgSJhOm2L3kTjhs-S35HZ_ZN507uS1_l2N_qbVILffNOknUDuq09cMBS8ifpic_jGWmZYrQY4AZCQ27zPzmA0QR94uA08hN2fvrNIVRuj-oHB3dVIPV0Nz2fN_jE0zCQI_MeE8KEw4/w153-h194/shower+caddy+for+camping.jpg" width="153" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">When my sister and brother-in-law drove up with their new RV last year, my heart inexplicably did a little pitter-patter. I’m in that class of adults whose last camping experience was when my children were little. It was fun, but then it stopped being fun when they grumbled about having to be separated from their friends (if said friends were not invited along, and since I preferred keeping things simple, their friends were typically not invited.) And the last time before that when I thought camping was fun was when I was little. It, too, ceased to be fun when I began to prefer the company of my friends who, of course, were not allowed to join us.</span><div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Now, in the early morning as I sip my coffee, my relaxing ritual of conjuring both ventures and adventures yet explored includes the camping life. It seems necessary to point out here that I am a regular visitor at the Salisbury Beach State Reservation, an enormously popular camping destination, and I <i>love </i>it. . . in the winter. . . when few people are present and the space between is far enough so conversation would be inconvenient.* (To learn a little bit about the history of Salisbury Beach, read my post “Salisbury Beach’s Original South End” - <a href="http://scoscheofclass.blogspot.com/2021/02/salisbury-beachs-original-south-end.html" style="color: #954f72;">http://scoscheofclass.blogspot.com/2021/02/salisbury-beachs-original-south-end.html</a>.) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">I think what I like best about the <i>idea</i> of camping - even more than the opportunity to enjoy nature - is the ease of being alone among people. (I bet I was really good at parallel play when I was a toddler.) In my morning musings I make all kinds of mental lists - places I’d like to visit, RV options, outdoor activities that complement my personality, necessary gear, recipe ideas, and cute names for my camper, to name a few. It seems that each day, my thinking about camping expands, which tells me that it’s time to make my lists more durable and seriously weigh all the pros and cons. In other words, I think I’m getting serious about joining the itinerant community. It might just be my wildest dream to date, but I see myself crossing the United States in a camper with my little doggies, finally seeing our country’s interior and furthest reaches for the first time. I’d love to be able to take in the majesty of natural wonders such as the Grand Canyon, the Badlands, and the Redwood Forest. In the meantime, as I’ve been counseled by a well-meaning sister, I should “try before I buy”. This weekend will be my first return to camping in over 25 years. It’s debatable whether it truly classifies as camping; I’m doing the “glamping” thing. As you can see, I’m easing myself in nice and slow! And, as part of my efforts at self-improvement, whereby I endeavor to counteract my solitary tendencies, I will set an arbitrary goal of meeting and talking to at least four strangers. . . the safe-looking ones, not the creepy-looking ones. It’s a process. (Tom and Marg will be nearby, so I needn’t feel threatened. . . and if you know Tom, the chances are high that we’ll be meeting all kinds of new people.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Here’s one list (in no particular order; it includes only places I’ve never been):<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">“Places I’d Like to Visit”. (or “Things I’d Like to See”)</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Niagara Falls, NY</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Hudson Valley, NY</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Redwood Forest, CA</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">The Grand Tetons, WY</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Lincoln’s Tomb, IL</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Shenandoah Valley, VA</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Lewis & Clark National Historical Park, OR</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Grand Canyon, AZ</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Gettysburg, PA</span></li><li><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Key West, FL</span></li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Feel free to offer one of your own suggestions for places to visit.</span><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">(I’ll keep y’all posted on how the weekend goes; the good, the bad, and the ugly.) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">*To be fair (to myself, at least), I do enjoy the company of others, but in small doses. These days, people exhaust me, and so, whenever I have plans to be with friends or family, I have to have an exit strategy already formulated. Many are the times that I abruptly and clumsily take my leave, causing others to wonder if they might have said or done something that caused me offence. Nope, it’s (almost) never the case that they have behaved badly; it’s just that my threshold has been reached. I’m working out the reasons why this is the case and why it seems more exaggerated at this stage of my life, but I’ll leave that deconstruction for later.</span></p></blockquote></div>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-22488123556809221352021-08-11T14:20:00.020-07:002021-08-13T13:47:30.036-07:00An Imperfect Understanding of How Viruses Work<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">I just knew my younger daughter would be the best source of basic information for my science question. She has a knack for explaining complicated concepts as if I were eight years old, and I never take offence. It’s actually quite liberating, as I get to ask my questions in non-sciency ways. Inevitably, she’ll have to rein me in whenever my imaginings stray too far into the realm of fantasy or I anthropomorphize just a wee bit too much, which is typical behavior on my part because it’s<i> so</i> <i>fun </i>to imagine life’s scientific mysteries that way. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">My burning question, this time, is, <i>Why do viruses want to kill people; don’t they depend on them being alive to sustain the species? </i>Words like “host” and “natural selection” and “replication” don’t come to me easily. Instead, my end of the conversation features imagery such as “stealthy shape-shifters”, “bullies”, “jackbooted soldiers sporting little mustaches that invite comment”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">With my own middle child attitude of “can’t we all just get along?”, it really gets my goat that there are viruses (just like people) who eschew the mutually beneficial relationship and gains that symbiosis offers us. The recent Delta variant of the Coronavirus bears special scrutiny here because it appears, in my mind, to be <i>too greedy. </i>Its spear-brandishing conquest has proven to be scarily effective, but even worse, it is downright lethal. My daughter happily assures me that it is not the design of the virus to kill off its host. Well, “assures” is perhaps not the best way to capture the reality of what’s going on, nor to characterize how I respond. To prove her point, my daughter invokes the common cold as an exemplar of a virus that has perfected its game. It can assure its longevity because it doesn’t kill its host, yet it can - with a desultory wave of the hand (or tendril) - easily replicate. Moreover, with its over-arching and innate desire(?) to guarantee survival of the species, the virus, at least collectively, must undergo the process of natural selection. . . just as all species must. After all, every species wants to be represented by the best and the brightest. (Think Olympic athletes such as Simone Biles or Usain Bolt.) It is likely that we have all, at one time or another or on many occasions, used the expression “survival of the fittest”, but we rarely take pause to consider any meaning beyond a metaphoric or pedestrian application. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Every living organism is equipped with the ability to adapt or mutate. We can be forgiven if we view mutation as something negative or undesirable. After all, if we have spent an entire childhood calling younger brothers “mutants”, the reflexive association that we make tends toward the unpleasant or undesirable. But mutation, just a more sciency way of connoting the more esoteric process of adaptation, is <i>necessary</i> for species survival. We are, in fact, <i>engineered</i> for continuous adaptation. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Consider the highly adaptive mosquito. Entomologists who study mosquitos have long given up on the ideal of a mosquito-free world. (And, really, it’s a dangerous ideal to exterminate an entire species.) Once again, natural selection has assured that “the best and the brightest” will survive. Decades of aggressive efforts to eradicate the most dangerous animal in the world through pesticides (such as DDT) failed to achieve this goal, but that doesn’t mean that mosquitos are completely dominating the game. We should enjoy a measure of relief that scientists have broadened their thinking, and are coming up with very creative ways to reduce mosquito populations. Listening to an NPR show about a month ago, I was amazed to learn that only about three species (out of some 3,000 different species of mosquitos) wreak all the disease havoc (Zika, West Nile, Yellow Fever, Dengue Fever, Malaria). Because the field of genetics has exploded in recent years, we’re witnessing an exciting, creative surge. The best ideas target specific species, the inherent value being that there is less chance of disrupting the balance of nature through unintended consequences. One lab is engaged in a program whereby they breed male mosquitos that transfer some type of toxic gene to their offspring, and the babies all die. (A little bit sad, in a way; you gotta feel for those poor parents!). Another program targets sterility (and don’t ask me how, because all I can imagine is a row of white-coated lab technicians bent over their benches with scalpels as they perform vasectomies on male mosquitos who cry out in uncharacteristically high voices, “Please, you don’t have to do this!”) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">My daughter once again reins me in, and turns the conversation to viruses that, perhaps, haven’t been as successful in their adaptive behaviors. If you remember, several years ago everyone was panicking about the SARS virus. And then. . . it just went away. What did it fail to do, or how didn’t it adapt? One of the most significant ways in which that virus differed from COVID-19, even though the two are closely related in other significant ways, was that transmission was more apt to happen if the infected person was symptomatic. This makes a huge difference because contagious people could be isolated, and thus the disease could be contained and ultimately extinguished. It wasn’t that SARS became dormant; it wasn’t that stupid or without options - it jumped to bats. . . and bided its time. And, one thing I’ve learned - just recently - is that give a virus space and time and it will evolve, it will hone its skills. So, in 2019, re-packaged as SARS-CoV-2, the virus jumped from bats back into humans. Top management had ironed out the earlier deficiencies surrounding transmission, but the newer strain was not as deadly. But, darn it, along comes the Delta variant, and it is proving to be even more highly transmissible. . . and even more deadly. . . AND it has apparently adopted a scornful, dismissive attitude toward the vaccinated, resulting in breakthrough cases. </span> (This new variant is expressing open dismay that it’s not enjoying attendant success if measured by how sick it can make <i>vaccinated</i> people. You can bet the power brokers of the viral world are working on that shortfall, however.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">That, my friends, is how adaptation works, that is adaptation at the highest levels! It would be wise not to underestimate those nefarious little evildoers. In fact, we humans could do more in terms of our own (purposeful) adaptation. So, stock up on bulk-size volumes of hand soap and, of course, hand sanitizer (both very effective in destroying virus cells). <o:p></o:p></span>(I won’t even state the obvious about masks and social distancing, other than to. . . well, you can guess.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><u><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Interesting facts and other asides about viruses. . . and breakdancing</span></u><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">They cannot be grown artificially; I think this means that, in a way, they are parasitic - they need a live host cell to do their evil machinations. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Adaptation: humans take about 20 years (i.e., one generation), viruses take minutes.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_3" o:gfxdata="UEsDBBQABgAIAAAAIQDI4TOSFQEAAFICAAATAAAAW0NvbnRlbnRfVHlwZXNdLnhtbKSSTW7DIBCF
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" o:spid="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 111pt; margin-left: 405.65pt; margin-top: 47.05pt; position: absolute; visibility: visible; width: 84pt; z-index: -251655168;" type="#_x0000_t75"><v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:////Users/joycemckenna/Library/Group%20Containers/UBF8T346G9.Office/TemporaryItems/msohtmlclip/clip_image001.png"><w:wrap type="tight"></w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-81852981852592892662021-07-07T14:29:00.003-07:002021-07-08T05:36:26.847-07:00Not proud; I'll do better<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once again I forgot to feed the cat. I am not at all proud of that fact. I don’t own the cat, though. No one does. She - or he - is a feral creature, and as much as I’d like to believe that she has enough skills to adapt in the face of my irresponsibility, it’s time I give my notice and ask that the shelter find a replacement, one who doesn’t forget once every six weeks or so. The best answer, one might alternatively think, is to re-commit, and write it on the damn calendar. Yet I’ve never resorted to that sensible tactic; how hard is it to remember to feed the cat every Tuesday, I think. Well, apparently, I’ve allowed my life to become just a bit too unstructured (and alarmingly noncommital; therein lies the problem.) So, I continue to forget every six weeks or so.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-956c24ca-7fff-4df4-e7ea-e0c20c5d7473"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it’s not as if I don’t </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">like</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the cat. I’ve had this conversation more than once with my oldest brother Kevin, who fervently believes I’m completely nuts for feeding a feral anything, but especially a cat (and when he says the word “cat”, his voice becomes its most raspy; the word comes out in a vehement burst, and brings to mind the jarring sound of a wood chipper.) I admire feral cats, I tell him; they’ve decided that they will live an uncompromising life. Humans, to them, aren’t worth the trouble that just naturally tends to swirl around them. I imagine that they’ve weighed the options on their two front paws - on the one paw, live a life of reliance on your human(s) (and, with that, no assurances that they will clean your litter box to your satisfaction or feed you your preferred food) in exchange for a risk-free experience, or, on the other paw, test your own abilities in the wild in exchange for independence, but with that independence, uncertainty. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And speaking of independence, studies in which domesticated dogs and cats have been compared, it comes as no surprise that cats show a decided advantage, exhibiting more competence when suddenly or unexpectedly cast into the wild. (I don’t know under what types of circumstances these creatures would have been so situated for the benefit of science; that in itself bears investigation.)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After making the case that cats are - or can be - independent, that they don’t really need humans, are you now beginning to challenge the essential wisdom of a feral-feeding program? After all, the world doesn’t need more feral cats. . . or dogs. And, can’t we just leave the outcome to Nature? The feral feeding program to which I belong is a very structured one, and is only one component in a larger program, the goal of which is to control the cat population and make healthier the feral cats that they are able to trap-neuter-release (TNR). It should be called trap-neuter-vaccinate-release, for this nonprofit organization does just that.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cats, it should be pointed out, have not been our companions - whether loyal or begrudging - nearly as long as dogs. For 40,000 years we humans have relied on dogs to - literally - hunt with us. The control of small pests became more of an issue during the agricultural age (12,000 years ago), and that was when our species made formal appeal to the feline species for help. It remains to be seen whether cats will ever debase themselves quite to the degree that dogs customarily do in order to win our approval; it would be unwise to hold one’s breath in anticipation.</span></p><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I think I’ll not tender my resignation just yet. I’m going to give the calendar a shot. Kevin’s viewpoint notwithstanding, I’m hopeful. No, I’m </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">resolved</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I’ll not let down Feral Filomena again!</span></span></span>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-2762481752428301562021-04-25T10:29:00.007-07:002021-06-10T05:57:14.726-07:00 The Haphazard Horticulturist<p><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Ever since I was little, gardens - especially of the vegetable sort - have been familiar settings.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">My earliest recollections are of pattering around, running barefoot up and down the lined spaces between rows of beans or corn or tomatoes, or jumping over the mounded plants when they were still young, just to see if my leaps were broad enough to carry me “cross-row”.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">And while I was still young, the occasional snapped vine or branch or smooshed squash under my inexperienced feet in no way diminished my enjoyment of “gardening”.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The warmth and even the smell of the dirt between and around the plants always charmed my senses.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">As I grew, attendance in the garden transformed into a noxious, enforced labor experience; I imagine all of my siblings recall the recurring summer edict to “spend 30 minutes weeding in the garden.”</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The only, I mean</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><i>only,</i><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">benefit was the freedom to graze while out there.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Perhaps, however, the quiet solitude was its greatest value.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Nevertheless, I was probably my most truculent self whenever I heard “the edict” that naturally implied I couldn’t spend every moment of summer engaged in pursuits of my own design and choosing.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> <br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The vegetables we grew at 415 Titicut were the most incomparably tasty I’ve ever had.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The smart reader out there is already either refuting that statement or amending it.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">It’s true that, like with all our other senses, our sense of taste falters as we age.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">(For women, it typically happens in our fifties, while men can luxuriate in sweet, sour, bitter, savory, and salty into their sixties).</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Did you know that our taste buds (which resemble garlic bulbs) are assigned different roles, and according to their assignment, are located in different parts of the mouth?</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Next time you bite into something sour, see if you notice the left and right sides of your tongue responding.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Bite into something bitter, and you’ll notice it when it reaches the back of your tongue.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Something sweet?</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">You’ll perceive that the instant it touches the tip of your tongue.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">And, finally, salt-detecting buds located between the sweet and sour ones will have you scrunching your face when you chomp on just about any entrée served at Cheesecake Factory.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Where it concerns the hobby of gardening I can’t boast deep understanding. My general knowledge springs from personal experience, and this is the trick that invariably worked on Titicut Hill: get the prison to deliver an extra wagonload of cow manure </span><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">in late March or early April </span><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">while they’re spreading it all over the fields that surround your house lot . Offer a carton of cigarettes to get them to also plough, thus saving you the impossible task of turning blue clay soil with laughably inadequate farm tools. (Would that be a tiller? A shovel? Were it to be a shovel, the tenant farmers of Titicut Hill would still be hopping up and down on their shovel steps today.) Next, create neat, ridged rows; then tamp in liberal quantities of seeds. Unless you’re “fastidious”, there’s no real need to mark where things are; when they start to grow, it’s exciting to guess what the plants are. At any rate, when they start producing, you should have a fair idea of what they are. Weeds are the easiest to detect, but the most obdurate in terms of removal and flogging into submission. They represent the rule-breakers as well as spirit-crushers of the garden. . . and lawn, of course. And they have one single value: if you take one hearty blade of grass and hold it tightly pressed between the thumbs of your two cupped hands, you can get it to sing. Ok, so maybe not “sing”, so much as screech. (That will only make sense if you’ve ever done it; otherwise, ignore grass’s one true value.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">None of this suggests that I understand gardening, just that I spent a substantial amount of time in gardens in the formative years. For several years after George and I first moved to Salisbury, “we” had a large, flourishing garden. And for the first few years, George deferred to me on most garden matters. He can - and should - be forgiven for believing that I knew how to garden; after all, I was a girl from rural America, and before we were married, he had taken great pleasure in oodles of meals prepared with vegetables from my family’s garden, meals that typically involved no fuss and minimal seasoning, but were delicious nevertheless.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Then one day, after having stretched my luck too far, the jig was up. I had either suggested that garlic and onions are perfectly compatible with beans, or - more scandalous - that all good vegetables can become great vegetables if you apply a generous covering of raw manure to your garden. Be reasonable here; one can easily see how my personally-developed farming manual would include such wisdom under the chapter “Best Soil Enrichment Practices”. Of all the ways that a wife can disappoint a husband, I never anticipated the degree of shame that I would feel the day when George looked at me with skepticism and dismay, saying simply, “You really don’t know anything about gardening, do you?” Well, yes, I thought I did. Gardening was simple: manure, ploughing, tossing in seeds, and getting someone to weed “as needed”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Going forward, whether it was composting techniques, proper hilling of potatoes, dedicating sufficient space for pumpkins, planting winter rye, making the move toward 100% organic gardening, even camouflaging cannabis; George kept his own counsel. He was a very good farmer. As the “farmer’s wife” (as Big George used to call me), I harvested our bounty and prepared meals, carved pumpkins with our two daughters, and - on occasion - smoked weed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJ8eoAwj9UltiJlut52mhYBsKc3Z8n_kAhRX9cnejhvtE6Ktuu37qf7qI72MkAGnqG7cgTsV5AD7bN86rykIg7sIiFgJysQxu1K8qwTZn4bzviKd-cHYVuACFho9qoGps1vzPG5-cGyE/s2048/wheelbarrow.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1788" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJ8eoAwj9UltiJlut52mhYBsKc3Z8n_kAhRX9cnejhvtE6Ktuu37qf7qI72MkAGnqG7cgTsV5AD7bN86rykIg7sIiFgJysQxu1K8qwTZn4bzviKd-cHYVuACFho9qoGps1vzPG5-cGyE/w193-h222/wheelbarrow.jpg" width="193" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Lately, I’ve been overcome with a desire to give Mother Earth another chance. This time, though, I’m thinking flowers. My inspiration boards are filling up with ideas with similar themes: “informal rock gardens”, “wildflower gardens”, “cottage garden ideas”, “low maintenance flowers and shrubs”, “maintenance-free backyards”, “easy alternatives to a grassy lawn”, “transform your backyard in 5 easy steps”. I’m excited about the prospects of a lush, backyard oasis, one in which I can sit admiring my creation, perhaps occasionally dead-heading, and freely dispensing sage horticultural advice to passers-by on the rail trail behind my house who are overcome with the sheer loveliness of my wildflower garden. <o:p></o:p></span>My gratification will know no bounds if my garden then induces bees, butterflies and birds to pay me visits when they’re likewise in the neighborhood. Spring really is the season of hopefulness. Time to put my inspiration boards to work.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-74891026236212423532021-03-16T09:09:00.007-07:002021-06-10T05:58:40.898-07:00Medicare and Me<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">I've recently noticed that my brain-mouth duo has been liberated. For sure, I'm no Polyanna, but I'll maintain that that's a good thing, the liberated brain-mouth, that is, not the Polyanna reference. In reality, invoking "Pollyanna" raises alarms these days, at least in psychotherapy circles where they talk in terms of syndromes; the Polyanna Syndrome refers to an unwillingness or inability to accept that sometimes, yes, life sucks and you need to embrace the misery that accompanies tragedy; let your grief carry you. . . naturally. Those who suffer from "polyannaism" - if each of us thinks real hard we can identify at least one person in our lives who exhibits signs of it - have the tendency to re-cast negative events in a positive, but unrealistic light. It's interesting to note that, for Polyanna types, memory of a past event is more likely to be skewed if it was a <i>negative</i> experience; memory is much more accurate when it involves a positive experience. This is how you can tell whether a person is just generally an optimist, coping with life in a healthy way, or someone who truly is a Polyanna, incapable of confronting adversity, thus short-circuiting the body's (and mind's) ability to heal. One final note: a condition such as this can affect not just one's ability to <i>be</i> <i>consoled, </i>but one's ability to <i>console.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br />Returning to my liberated brain, my entrenched habits of censoring my thoughts have been shattered, and now a steady stream of musings and opinions are tumbling forth. At this particular moment I blame it on Medicare, and why not? They're in my cross-hairs. After contributing for decades, if not generously, at least with a minimum of (pointless) protest; I have signed up. If my age (something that I'm fairly good at remembering) weren't a signal that I needed to take care of the paperwork involved, my impossibly overburdened mailbox served as a considerate reminder by daily vomiting flyers from AARP, Tufts, Blue Cross Blue Shield, Aetna, etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br />The first thing I notice is that I'm paying <i>more </i>for health insurance. I won't get into the government's characteristically polite, even affectionate, and cleverly worded letter as to why this is so, other than to say that it included fun acronyms like "MAGI"* and "IRMAA"**, and assurances that if my subsequent levels of income should go into free fall, I was free to ask them (not even sure I know who "them" is) to re-assess my ability to pay additional premiums. The short of it is, I'm on a fixed income and I don't <i>like </i>surprises of this sort. I never saw myself as the type who would rail against this kind of injustice; no, I would join the ranks of retirees with grace, composure, and bonhomie; you'd love having me in your midst. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">I don't think I'm especially daft when it comes to educating myself about matters that involve health or fixed costs or both of those ideas together. My good friends Linda and Ann, over the course of several dinner dates, tried to simplify Medicare for me. Finally, they just pulled their cards from their wallets and tapping each one as illustration, said, <i>you need Parts A & B </i>(this card right here), <i>and Prescription coverage </i>(this card right here). Or maybe they said, <i>you need Parts A & D, </i>or <i>Parts A & C, </i>or <i>just Part D but only if you were born on Friday the 13<sup>th</sup>, </i>or maybe they just said sign up for everything that arrives via U.S.P.S. or email; that way you’ll be covered. And my cousin Beth cautioned: make sure you do that at precisely 0000 hours exactly 3 months before you turn 65. The promised penalties if you don’t comply are considerable; the Social Security Administration is quite clear about that. For those who play fast and loose with the SSA’s rules, you’ll know that they mean business when they send out a U.S. marshal armed with a rifle with bayonet attached.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">So, it’s been fun turning 65. I’m looking forward to thumbing through my wallet, lifting my shiny new Medicare card and slamming it down on the counter the next time I find myself in a doctor’s office or at the Registry of Motor Vehicles or upon arrival at the National Zoo. I mean, I paid enough for that membership - I should get something good out of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0in 2.25in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> * * * *<span> <span> <span> </span>*<span> <span> <span> *<span> <span> <span> </span>*<span> <span> <span> *</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">*Here's an important lesson for anyone who draws a paycheck legally in this country. One of the greatest betrayals for the novice wage earner is a mythical figure called "gross income". It represents what you innocently think you'll be earning. My best advice to a person upon receiving their very first paycheck is to sit down before taking a look at it, preferably in front of a computer with internet connection; it's a shocking experience that will make you lightheaded, and one that persuades you to do a google search of "lowest income tax countries". (I've done the work for you; oil-rich Qatar or the tourist-pleasing Bahamas might be options). No one asked you if you wanted to set aside a certain percentage for the more challenging days of retirement. . . which keeps moving further away in the future. No one asked you, either, if you wanted to share some of your earnings with your state - to do with as they deem necessary - and with the federal government - to do with as they, too, deem necessary. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">While there’s no profit in protesting the unattainable nature of gross income, as April 15 approaches, we warm to the idea of “adjusted gross income”. Reassured by the promise that it can never surpass gross income, the objective is to make AGI as different from gross income as possible. The real evil-doer is “modified adjusted gross income”; the diabolical MAGI takes your adjusted gross income and <i>ADDS BACK IN</i> the deductions you could claim. The first question you should ask here is, why is there such a thing? MAGI is used in order to limit participation in the Government’s “benefit” programs or to prevent you from contributing to a Roth IRA, as well as deducting for contributions that you made to your IRA. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">**The final indignity is IRMAA. Simplified, “Income-Related Monthly Adjustment Amount” is the Government’s way of saying, <i>Hey, Joyce, we know that you and your husband saved, saved, saved throughout your working years, eschewing all manner of vacations and splurges, instead investing wisely; we now want to reward you by charging you more for your Medicare coverage. </i>(Right about now I have a rather impolite response to that; I have faith that I don’t need to say it out loud.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">The bottom line is, the Government is always going to get its money; it’s too impatient to wait around till <i>YOU </i>say you’re ready to pay taxes. Moreover, once they’ve wrested those dollars from you, that fist closes tight around them. So, I’m wondering about what lifestyle changes I’d have to make in Qatar? It might be nice not to have to adorn my front step with a shovel and a bucket of ice melt 8 months of the year. But, what about the Bahamas? Are hurricanes a chronic threat? The island life does sound appealing. Hmmmm….. so much to think about.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-19378884696053476422021-03-07T11:10:00.010-08:002021-06-10T06:04:19.134-07:00Amazon's Jeff Bezos - He's Worth a Lot of Zeros<p><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> Returning from Lawrence this morning after getting my first COVID vaccination, I tuned in to Meghna Chakrabarti’s “On Point” program on NPR. She was discussing Pres. Biden’s pro-labor stance with her guests, Stephen Greenhouse (a reporter for the New York Times), and a labor leader from an Alabaman poultry factory. Consider this claim, made by Greenhouse: if Jeff Bezos gave every employee $60,000, he would still be making the same income that he was making pre-COVID. Bezos’ business, Amazon, was one of the “winners” this past year, a year that saw </span><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">tens of millions of Americans losing their jobs, and </span>the majority of small business owners</span><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> predicting - nearly a year after enforced closings - that they’ll never fully recover to pre-COVID levels. But, get this - Bezos’ net worth at the end of 2020 stood at 184.3 billion dollars, putting him at the very peak of Forbes’ list of most wealthy. Notwithstanding my tendency to get all topsy-turvy with big numbers, Bezos’ income and overall wealth doesn’t fail to impress. </span><i style="font-family: Oxygen;">Several hundreds of billions of dollars. </i><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">That’s a shit-ton lot of benjamins. How many storage units would that fill? How long would it take a person to count out those bills, even in the highest currency denomination of $100? And how many times would that person have to start over because he lost count in the middle? (Did you know that we used to have bills of $500, $1,000, $5,000, and even $10,000 until discontinued in 1969?)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">And get this, too - Bezos bought a $165 million house in Beverly Hills right before our country shut down and the economy hit the skids. I did the math on that. While the accepted wisdom on mortgages for the average person is that you should stay comfortably within 28% of your income, if Jeffrey chose to take out a mortgage, based on his 2020 income of $74 billion, the </span><i style="font-family: Oxygen;">mortgage</i><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> amount that he could be approved for by a regular loan institution would be $20,720,000,000, or - in simpler language - nearly $21 billion. That’s just the mortgage; given the customary 20% down payment, Jeff could have written a check for a little over $5 billion and bought his dream home for $25,900,000,000, or - again in simpler language - nearly $26 billion. By the time I’ve entered in all those zeros, my calculator - in order to fit the number on the screen - has reduced the font size so much, that I have to squint to see the answer. The obvious questions then begin their assault. Do houses exist at that price point? Where would they be? Isn’t that more than the cost of a small-to-mid size island? What features would they boast? How does Jeffrey fit that five billion number in that tiny space on his check? My powers of imagination fail me in this line of questioning. So, while at first blush a $165 million house seems excessive - you’re getting much, much more house than you can ever need, that’s pocket change to Jeff Bezos.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">The real issue, which deserves dedicated space on my blog, is the drive by Amazon’s operational staff in this country to unionize. (One is much more apt to see unionized warehouses in Europe). Needless to say, the company is opposed; they see it as an obstacle that will, among other misleading claims, harm the “healthy” communication that exists between management and labor. How this plays out for Amazon is of great interest to other commerce giants, like Walmart and Target, as well as established unions here in the U.S., but, like I said, the topic merits exclusive attention. I’ll come back to it. . . unless something else intercepts my attention.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-80073475803697409382021-03-05T05:52:00.013-08:002022-04-28T11:51:37.652-07:00 The Hermit of Black Rocks<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgij_3aY5sEXp1bv-kcWE0CB7kZ269dwRJ91LvLY6Ng0nGzFTq5kvIkpPJTV1Uy66D4gZukyExOwu9An2WKAnWtcQKgQcmyYeoHbApD5jqYRrNt5zZ-5kBpEkqz-dbBjgtWbiv7mA6MmmY/s2048/Ben+Butler%2527s+Toothpick.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1364" data-original-width="2048" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgij_3aY5sEXp1bv-kcWE0CB7kZ269dwRJ91LvLY6Ng0nGzFTq5kvIkpPJTV1Uy66D4gZukyExOwu9An2WKAnWtcQKgQcmyYeoHbApD5jqYRrNt5zZ-5kBpEkqz-dbBjgtWbiv7mA6MmmY/w200-h133/Ben+Butler%2527s+Toothpick.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Part I</b></div></span><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 33.3pt 0.0001pt 27pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">John Keenan pulled the door closed to his driftwood cottage at Black Rocks, descended the three steps, and turned slowly to follow the sandy lane away from his modest home. The retired mill laborer fixed his gaze on the uneven pathway, and tugged on the tattered brim of his flat cap, his fondest article of clothing and a nod to his Irish immigrant roots. In an effort to shield his body from the wind sweeping in from the direction of the ocean, he simultaneously raised his shoulders and tucked his chin into the shawl collar of his worn but heavy wool jacket, which hung a little more loosely on his body of late. The day’s weather wasn’t any colder than an average mid-December day, and he took little notice of the recent dusting of snow on the ground. But John Keenan, the “Black Rocks Hermit”, was feeling every one of his 84 years. Of late, too, a persistent, as yet undiagnosed pain was worrying him, and for that reason he resolved to visit Salisbury’s most trusted and beloved physician, the Reverend Dr. Jacob Spalding, at his hospital at Brown’s Park, off the town center.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 33.3pt 0.0001pt 27pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 33.3pt 0.0001pt 27pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Before setting off on foot, (it being off-season, the “electric” was not running between the jetty and the beach center,) John stopped in at his neighbor’s cottage to let him know that he was heading to the hospital. Carl Barck was a fisherman who also ran a ferry service between Plum Island, Black Rocks, and Newburyport’s downtown. He was a good neighbor to John, likewise an immigrant — in his case, from Sweden, and when several days had passed without signs of John’s return, he followed up with Dr. Spalding, only to learn that John had never arrived at the hospital. He alerted the public, resulting in an anxious appeal in the Newburyport Daily News, December 16, 1914.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">“’Black Rocks Hermit’ Missing” headed the brief article that had intercepted my attention while browsing an archival edition of the Newburyport Daily News. <i>Hmmm. . . interesting</i>, I thought. I’m always fascinated by people’s stories, and the spareness of detail further fueled my curiosity. I instantly launched myself into research about my curious new subject, John Keenan, on two fronts: archival newspapers and genealogical platforms. As you can well imagine, someone dubbed a hermit is not going to give it up freely, so a good deal of my searching was marked by frustration. Most of John Keenan’s story can be supported by verifiable records; some is just me determining what is plausible and fleshing out the details, and some of it - when wide gaps are revealed - is sheer imagining. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">One early take-away was that Keenan’s story closely resembled my ancestors’. Through federal census records, I learned (to the extent that one can “learn”, given the fluidity of the information supplied to, and recorded by, census takers) that Mr. Keenan immigrated from Ireland to the United States in 1845 at the age of fifteen. For those unfamiliar with patterns of Irish immigration, <span style="font-size: 12pt;">1845 marked the first in a succession of devastating years that were collectively - and variously - called the Great Famine, The Potato Famine, and the Great Hunger. The recurring seasons of widespread blight of their staple food - the potato - caused unspeakable tragedy in the form of death, disease, and the famed Irish Diaspora. </span> New York City, Boston, and Quebec were popular U.S. ports of entry during this time period, but in John Keenan's case I was unable to pin down precisely where he arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Keenan had a child with Margaret Gill (likewise an Irish immigrant); their son James was born in 1857 in Lawrence. It wasn’t until 1863, however, that the couple married, and when James came of age, he joined his father as a textile mill worker. James, along with John’s sister-in-law, Ann Gill, were considered “fancy weavers”. (What is of interest from the historical angle is that there is good reason to believe that the family would have been “touched” – at least peripherally – by the widely-reported Pemberton Mill collapse and fire of 1860, a disaster that disproportionately impacted Irish immigrant mill workers of Lawrence. Coincidentally, my great-great grandfather had migrated to the “Immigrant City” at this very same point in time.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Keenan was typical of so many up-river mill workers. They rented apartments close to the factories in which they worked, and genuinely lived for the one day a week that they could venture as a family down the river aboard a steamboat, disembark at the wharf at Black Rocks with thousands of other like-minded day-trippers, eager to while away the entire day close to the ocean, breathing in the sweet, fresh air, listening to the soothing sounds of the waves, and snacking contentedly from the picnic basket that they would have carefully prepared early in the day at home. It was a pronounced contrast with the toxic air they breathed in and the deafening sounds that battered their ears all week long inside the factory walls.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">For a span of several decades in the latter half of the 1800’s, there was a welcoming attitude toward these visitors to Salisbury Beach on the part of the Beach Commoners, who held title to the entire area. The commoners’ interests at this point in time were not in opposition with the vacationers’. The former were interested in preserving their longstanding right to harvest salt marsh hay, and sell sand; the latter, to enjoy the June-to-September “season” at the beach, even if in their hopes of making more permanent arrangements, they were denied the option of actually purchasing lots. (The best that a cottager could wrangle was a lease option that was predictably renewed over and over.) However, as the end of the century drew near, the value of oceanfront property was trending skyward. <span style="font-size: 12pt;">Elsewhere along the New England coast, where “sweepage lots” had typically been under the ownership of Massachusetts Bay “commoners” dating back to the earliest years of settlement, most of the land by 1900 had been deeded over to private interests.</span> Salisbury was one of the last communities to alter the common arrangement.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><span>The occasional hammering together of cottages turned into the steady rush of construction in the last two decades of the 19<sup>th</sup> century. The attraction, too, felt by real estate developers desirous of acquiring title mirrored, in a way, the magnetic pull that the cottagers had felt, but the motivation couldn’t have been more incompatible. The two sides were thus unwittingly galloping along a collision course; the fallout would be tragic, at least for many of the Black Rocks cottagers.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Part II<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">In 1903, after quietly securing the approval of at least two-thirds of the beach commoners’ heirs (or at least the approval of two-thirds of <i>the descendants he had succeeded in locating</i>), Edward P. Shaw of Newburyport, one of that city’s darlings, engineered a constitutional “coup”; in other words, he succeeded – quite controversially – in having the state legislature alter the terms under which the “common” property at Salisbury Beach could be bought and sold. Many men had tried this before, but Shaw exhibited the requisite tenacity and convincing artfulness, thus setting the stage for a showdown. Rather than conclude that Shaw’s actions were motivated purely by greed – he was, after all, a shrewd and ambitious businessman, it is better to view his role in the broader context. Shaw had a vision for the Beach; in his mind’s eye, rather than discrete parties of visitors converging on our shores, whiling away the hours, and then vanishing without having really been a part of anything, he reflected on an alternative image. The Beach should be purposefully designed with a sense of cohesion and, importantly, <i>permanence</i>. The “common” arrangement that had been in effect since the Town’s inception in 1638 had always made such a notion difficult, if not impossible. Evidently, it had served the needs of the citizens for centuries. Changing preferences for land use, however, dictated a new way of looking at the space. The new arrangement, structured by Shaw, was called Salisbury Land & Improvement Company; Shaw, himself bought up several lots, placing some in his name, and many in his wife’s name. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Although it might seem a contradiction, E. P. Shaw’s vision was ruinously short-sighted. Between 1903 and 1910, an agreeable arrangement hummed along between cottagers, as lessees, and Shaw, as landowner. However, the esteemed Newburyport investor hadn’t limited his real estate acquisitions to shorefront property (for the sake of renting or leasing beach lots). He also had invested heavily in real estate positioned along high-traveled routes; his development of trolley lines throughout the region was significant, to say the least. When Shaw found himself overextended and filed for bankruptcy in 1909, his “Salisbury Land and Improvement Company” went into receivership. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">The new landowners were not compassionate men. In fact, despite their intentions of addressing larger infrastructure needs, they showed a cold detachment where it concerned the cottagers, especially the ones occupying the south end of the beach. They – the south end cottagers – tended to be of the humbler sort, mostly mill workers, tradesmen and fishermen. Many were foreign immigrants; the principal country of origin was Ireland, with a lesser number having arrived here from Canada, and one – Carl Barck, Keenan’s closest neighbor – having immigrated from Sweden. The lease agreements that the south end cottagers had struck with Shaw were emblematic of hard-earned, yet fragile dreams. They instead viewed the machinations of the new landowners, the Salisbury Beach Associates, as an “unmitigated steal”. (Newburyport Daily News, Mar 6, 1912)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Who were the men behind the scurrilous Salisbury Beach Associates? They were three Lawrence men: Walter Coulson, lawyer; Portal Black, real estate dealer and mining company investor; and James Simpson, banker and investor. The three men had one thing in common – an unfaltering commitment to amassing wealth, and the biographical details of two of them – Coulson and Simpson – offer similar abstracts. They were contemporaries; they were both sons of immigrants, Coulson’s father having immigrated to Lawrence from Ireland, and Simpson’s father arrived here from Scotland. Both fathers ran highly successful and lucrative retail grocery businesses; it is conceivable that their paths crossed as a consequence of this commonality. Coulson and Simpson grew up in refined circumstances in which the families regularly retained young, single, female servants. Moreover, the parents placed an emphasis on higher education; as such, Coulson earned his law degree through Harvard University, while Simpson followed through on a university level engineering program. It would appear, then, that the lawyer and the banker were accustomed to some of life’s advantages. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">Portal Black’s trajectory through life bore little resemblance to that of his SBA cohorts. A generation older than his business partners, he was just as ambitious, propelled by an acquisitive hunger; by the age of 30, he had amassed real estate holdings and a cozy sum of money, all on a mill operative’s earnings. Black progressed from mill operative to rooming house overseer to rooming house owner/landlord. The slow and steady pace that defined the early stages of his career path gave way to a more intensified (and reckless) pursuit of wealth, eventually placing him in the crosshairs of a grand jury indictment after he was accused by several stockholders of swindling them in a much-publicized mining company stock manipulation case in 1902.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">One can’t help but feel exasperated with the harsh tactics of “The Three Associates”, as the SBA came to be known. Any reader of this particular chapter in my version of Salisbury’s history will note my personal bias. Indeed, as with so many David and Goliath stories, my sympathies are with the underdog, the downtrodden. While the real estate partners were being lavished with all kinds of praise by the press for their plans to “improve” Salisbury Beach (and later, even, Seabrook Beach), they were simultaneously re-writing leases for cottagers with impossible terms that were transparent efforts to evict them. If they seemed tone-deaf in the face of their lessees’ plights, that’s because their calculus left no room for compassion; it was business, not personal. And if they had had cause early in their lives to interact with people occupying society’s lower rungs, they were left unaffected by the experience. They had no understanding how arduous life was for some. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;">John Keenan was one of the few cottagers who emerged from the fray ostensibly unscathed. What he no doubt observed must have made his heart heavy. All around his cottage at Black Rocks, neighbors were being systematically squeezed by the new landlords. Those who either refused to surrender to the new terms or were financially unable to continue leasing found themselves in a most untenable predicament; if they couldn’t remove their cottages and personal possessions from their lot – and they mostly could not because at that point in time there were no roads upon the shifting sands, then the landowners would take possession. It wasn’t unheard of for an aggrieved evictee to set his cottage on fire before departing. There were also several cottagers who entered into mortgage agreements with the Salisbury Beach Associates, choosing to buy the land on which their cottages sat. For a significant number of them, it ended badly, as well, in the form of foreclosure. In at least one case, it is interesting to note, a long-term cottager used the courts to fight back. After being served with a breach of lease conditions, a Mrs. Sarah White was issued eviction orders by the landowners, the Salisbury Beach Associates, who proceeded to sell the lot to a Lowell interest. In Superior Court it was resolved (in March of 1916) that, while the landowners – new and old – may have had title to the land, they had no legal rights to the cottage. Damages were assessed, and it marked one of the few clear victories on the part of the cottagers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Oxygen;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Part III<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">How had John Keenan set himself apart from so many of his neighbors who found themselves in a no-win position? How had he escaped the eviction process? Without being able to positively assert, we can surmise that throughout his life he handled his earnings carefully, dutifully saving so that he could buy his cottage. It’s easy to read too much into the information that is provided to census takers, but it can’t be without some importance that on the part of the 1910 census where it indicates occupation, “carpenter” was crossed out, and the words “own income” were inserted. A rumor at the time was that John Keenan was a wealthy man. There may be validity to the claim. It’s also possible that this immigrant mill worker who succeeded in buying his own cottage, ultimately owning it outright – when so many of his neighbors with similar profiles failed the test, offered his fellow citizens an unrestrained opportunity to speculate wildly. Rather than draw the logical conclusion, that he earned a secure living and saved judiciously (because sometimes what appears to be the case, is just exactly that), their reasoning took them in a more imaginative and romanticized direction. They fancied an Ebenezer Scrooge-like character, steadily amassing a fortune, yet all the while living in a driftwood cottage (or “dugout”, as one journalist called it). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The brief mention in the Newburyport Daily News, dated December 16, 1914, that the “Black Rocks Hermit” was missing makes evident that although Keenan preferred his own company, his welfare was clearly on others’ minds. The article revealed that he hadn’t been well, and he let a neighbor know that he was setting out for Dr. Spalding’s hospital; with his whereabouts still undetermined for a week, he had everyone concerned. It’s quite plausible that Keenan, en route toward the center of town, changed his mind, preferring not to learn a bleak diagnosis. Instead, according to the Daily’s version of a happy ending a week later, Keenan re-appeared after having visited friends in Haverhill. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Three years later, it was reported once again that Keenan had gone missing. According to the Boston Globe, March 6, 1917, the ailing 87-year-old disappeared from Dr. Spalding’s Hospital, and was unaccounted for for three days. The search party, consisting of Dr. Spalding and Capt. Willard Charles of the Salisbury Beach Life Saving Station, fought their way across thigh-high drifts of snow to reach Keenan’s shack. You have to marvel at the fortitude, not to mention stubbornness, of a sick 87-year-old walking several miles through high snow drifts. I’m the first one to romanticize the details of someone’s life, but the Globe’s version of events struck me in a wry sort of way; in the article entitled “Aged Hermit Goes Back to Die by Sea”, Keenan’s departure from the hospital was described as “the longing for lost solitude and the call of the roaring breakers…”. Our hermit of Black Rocks survived his ordeal, but lost the greater battle, finally succumbing to “cancer of the face” in 1919.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Despite all the research that I conducted, I’m not really substantially closer to understanding how John Keenan came to be known as the Black Rocks hermit. The Pittsburgh Press (March 13, 1917) claimed, “So far as known, he has associated with no one for more than 40 years and has seldom spoken with anyone.” As I see it, he may have kept his own counsel, but he held a factory job as a laborer until his retirement, and in post-retirement worked part-time as a carpenter. Neither of those occupations seems compatible with a reclusive lifestyle. Moreover, for a time – while his wife was still alive, her sister was living with the family. His son, too, came to live with him at the Beach in his later years. My hypothesis is this: after John’s wife passed away, he moved from Lawrence to the Beach permanently. Finally, when his only son died from consumption in 1907, he was quite alone in the world. He did have grandchildren, but how active a role they had in his life I’ve been unable to suss out. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">I’ve scrutinized the census records for the south end of Salisbury Beach for the decades just prior to and after the turn of the century. Even though it might appear to present inert data, there’s life behind the information; they’re beginnings of stories about families, neighbors, livelihoods. They tell of origins, arrivals, departures, those things that suggest transience or permanence or relationship building. They hint at larger actions – in this case, the controversial turning over of the Beach Common to real estate developers, and the dramatic consequences that that series of events would produce in the first two decades of the 20<sup>th</sup> century. In trying to solve the mystery of the “Black Rocks Hermit”, the man who went by the name of John Keenan, I may have failed in providing you – and myself – a satisfactory explanation for the moniker. I remain convinced that he was an ordinary man who kept most people at a safe distance. Along with countless other factory workers from upriver, from June to September, he felt that same magnetic pull to leave the city after a hard week of work, journeying down the Merrimac to profit from the cleansing air and waters at Black Rocks. Unlike the vast majority of his peers, Keenan was able to buy a piece of his heaven, and make it his permanent home. And if I’m not mistaken in my calculations, he most likely preferred the winter months.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-12291132577927372962021-03-01T09:19:00.008-08:002021-06-10T05:57:32.867-07:00Our Drowned Coastline<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in;"><b><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NIoFO9TsHX8hRMv4YtJFrRCyU_zHj1iBDYdbTp-P8mjK-xo0kRIrC2dsIPFvFI3tp5fcdjTorjx3FRh2RhD4_Wp5zj2tRLSvfaFVT5e4I73kH36lj8XxKIbkiQfwZ_K3BIRxt90tO8I/s2048/FullSizeRender.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1962" data-original-width="2048" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NIoFO9TsHX8hRMv4YtJFrRCyU_zHj1iBDYdbTp-P8mjK-xo0kRIrC2dsIPFvFI3tp5fcdjTorjx3FRh2RhD4_Wp5zj2tRLSvfaFVT5e4I73kH36lj8XxKIbkiQfwZ_K3BIRxt90tO8I/w216-h207/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="216" /></a></div><p></p><b><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;">This is a sample of how I “learn” stuff. While I hesitate to say that my approach to learning new things adheres to proven methodologies, my way is really fun. An adventure. One that has no clear roadmap. I just go where my curiosity take me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;">My curiosity this morning began when I was reading about Salisbury’s “drowned coastline”; Margaret Rice’s <i>On These Things Founded </i>says just enough to inspire me to dig a little deeper for an adequate explanation. What was – or is – the Fundian Fault, and what was its role in the “drowned coastline” of New England? And why would I be interested in that? I’ve been delving into Salisbury’s history as a way to better understand my own place in its present. By and large, it’s working, too. But, first, about Fundy. (Fundy wasn’t a person, so you won’t find any namesake connection, just some suggested etymological explanation about “fendu”, a French word meaning “split”). On to the Bay of Fundy, a cold place with fascinating associations to be made: 1) the first European settlement in North America was near there, making me wonder how reasonable a people were the Europeans, to freely settle in a North Atlantic locale where water temperatures rarely get above 45ºF, 2) it boasts the world’s highest tides, something to do with “resonance” and rocking motions, an idea that is kind of pleasant to consider, and 3) also because of tidal behavior, the exposed cliffs of Joggins, Nova Scotia offer the paleontologist the greatest array of fossil pickins’ <i>in the world</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;">Every reasonably-aware American has a vague understanding of the perils of earthquakes and tidal waves, and living on or near fault lines. As New Englanders we reassure ourselves that our fault lines are ancient, well-worn, and less prone to catastrophic quakes. At least, that logic allows us to sleep comfortably at night; we think, <i>thank God we don’t live anywhere near the San Andreas Fault along that other big ocean. </i>But, earthquakes do register – and fairly regularly – in our region. One of sizeable magnitude, 5.6 on the Richter Scale, occurred here in October, 1727, and had all adults on their knees, trembling; they trembled both because the ground beneath them was shuddering and because their terrified minds were convulsing as they tried to reconstruct recent events – <i>had they pissed off our Glorious God in some way, and was it too late to promise good behavior; </i>at the very least and with nothing to lose, they begged God’s mercy. And then they pooped their homespun breeches. . . seismically. An earthquake of even greater magnitude shook the region in 1755, with an equally predictable result: every colonialist – from Asa to Zebediah – dropped to his knees and once again begged God’s great mercy. And once again, these God-fearing colonialists pooped their breeches. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;">It takes some imaginative thinking to visualize our coastline miles further to the east. In all honesty, I have just as hard a time accepting that the sub-aquatic surface is anything but sand, miles upon miles of nothing more than sand. So, it causes me delight when I learn things like, in the waters off Nantucket Island, while mapping the sea floor in 2005 for a proposed wind farm, scientists discovered an ancient submerged forest beneath the seabed. The ocean, it turns out, doesn’t just cover sand that is endlessly wide and deep. In stumbling upon traces of insects and various flora - artifacts associated with life on land, the implications are clear; once upon a time, the coastline was further out to. . . well. . . sea. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Questrial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: Questrial;">Episodic erosion can account for only so much of the changing shoreline. When we invoke Mother Nature, we automatically conjure extreme weather events, perhaps Nor’easters, but surely hurricanes. Can we assign earthquakes, too, to her purview? We raise a much thornier geological issue when we introduce concepts such as glacial melt; there’s the natural association - at least to some - with global warming. We know how that discussion will unfold, don’t we? Be that as it may, scientific evidence points us toward a single conclusion; rising seas have long been gnawing away at our coastline, and will continue their relentless advance. That’s not welcome news to those among us who live at the watery fringes of our continent. While it’s intriguing to witness occasional signs of transformation - after all, one can’t help but stand in awe of nature, it can be quite unsettling to reflect on the overall pattern of shore abrasion. I’ll leave you with one comforting thought: erosion is, <i>by and large</i>, a gradual phenomenon; that means, most of us will <i>probably </i>be long gone from this earth by the time the sea has advanced enough for us to take notice. (On the other hand, Massachusetts' barrier beaches seem to have been taking incessant thrashings in recent years. What's up with that, Mother Nature?!)</span></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-65863964492594955152021-02-16T09:50:00.008-08:002021-06-10T06:04:43.746-07:00 “Salisbury Beach’s Original South End”<p><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ01IHR2cveEAZGZeLMETNBAm-gDNhsnyypLn1kJOCWyAUetfIWlNMAHO01Xv-PJXgPX9UkpOTR8Pgregps_XLxnEw2B5te_ABYml8e1QCuB2XYZV-IBRKB5RRmhKzVkDiEqCkVGDEenY/s2048/085FB8B9-2DD3-4BED-98F4-59683A20ED4A.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ01IHR2cveEAZGZeLMETNBAm-gDNhsnyypLn1kJOCWyAUetfIWlNMAHO01Xv-PJXgPX9UkpOTR8Pgregps_XLxnEw2B5te_ABYml8e1QCuB2XYZV-IBRKB5RRmhKzVkDiEqCkVGDEenY/s320/085FB8B9-2DD3-4BED-98F4-59683A20ED4A.heic" width="320" /></a></div><br />I wouldn’t be so foolish as to say that Salisbury, as Massachusetts’ northern-most coastal community, is<span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;">too </i><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">popular as a summer destination, but I would allow that the slower, calmer pace of the off-season can be equally appealing.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">It’s a contrast that evokes sharper awareness of nature’s offerings; one is more attuned to the behaviors of wildlife, less so, social behaviors.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Although it takes a bit of extra work to ready myself (and the pups) for nature’s side of my front door in the middle of winter, it’s worth it.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Walking in my neighborhood is pleasant; as the oldest established neighborhood in Salisbury, it has great history – lots of Buswells, Stevenses and Pikes settled on the “Circular Road”, and family drama – rife with Hatfield and McCoy-like feuds – ruled the day.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Several homes still exist that once were occupied by descendants of our town’s first division settlers; also to be appreciated is a handful of ancient and towering trees that allow me to imagine their spindly forms from earlier times when they optimistically stretched skyward in front of or beside those homes with intriguing histories.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">(I’m always fascinated by trees, especially ones that have so obviously been around for a long time, and Massachusetts is still counted among the states with the oldest tree populations.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Even more pleasant for walking in our town is Salisbury Beach State Reservation. Massachusetts’ Department of Conservation and Recreation does a fine job of keeping the beach groomed in the summer, and an equally fine job of clearing snow in the winter. As the years have rolled by, the “season” (by which I mean, that period of time when the Rez plays host to a diverse panoply of visitors) has become longer and longer and characterized by, well, even greater diversity. It is especially evident this year that our Reservation’s charms can be fully appreciated in the cold months, too. Of course you won’t see RV caravans, school busses, or back-to-back traffic on the road in; instead, you’ll see solitary figures walking on the beach or dog walkers on the river or a boat here and there bobbing along on Black Rock Creek. For sure, you’ll see birders – alone, in pairs, or in small clusters (and lately, a good-sized cluster of Mass. Audubon birders). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Over the years I’ve learned some bits and pieces about the Rez’s history. To begin, one should embrace the idea that the area was long referred to more generally as Black Rocks. Right now is a good moment to reflect on an aspect of Salisbury Beach’s history, or more broadly, our coast. Long before access was thought of in terms of Beach Road from Salisbury Square, people arrived via the Merrimack River – by curraghs, sailing ships, ferry boats, and later by steamboats. It takes some work of the imagination, moreover, to visualize a much earlier time when the area featured a broad expanse of tall pine trees nuzzling the water’s edge. Dare to go back even further – thousands of years to an era when glaciers characterized New England and before the dramatic alterations wrought by the Fundian Fault, which caused our region’s land surface to become a “drowned coastline”; back then – as hard as it is to imagine – our coastline was several miles east of where it now lies. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">We’re more interested, though, in the modern landscape. Today’s topography presents beleaguered dunes and marsh surrounding a flat, methodically gridded one-mile square of sandy campground with sites that are perfectly spaced apart. Each site is adorned with a precisely placed scrub pine, the most meager bit of shade or privacy that the camper can expect. (Truth be told, campers who stay at Salisbury Beach State Reservation don’t come for a woodsy, frontier-like experience; they come for the unrivaled enjoyment of the alluring beaches that are mere steps away). When you’re able to observe the mostly-dormant campground in the winter, the little pines tell their own stories. When taken as a whole, their comically irregular and contorted stems lend a dynamic quality to the campground. Many of the crouching trees lean westward as if succumbing to relentless east winds, while others incline in random directions in droll defiance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHafRlFSwT1QYtIHHzIGuq-fBRJktUGg9iIBBDQWbtALV6euAw-vB3UPzJsMLfF5boxyz_va8bN70YKUdvOdviyIHhJWhi4BGCDUIRopVFtNezuyrATTPmzE-eULSSnJ5r_eXhoWvq_g/s1289/SEASIDE+RR+1910+or+1911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="1289" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHafRlFSwT1QYtIHHzIGuq-fBRJktUGg9iIBBDQWbtALV6euAw-vB3UPzJsMLfF5boxyz_va8bN70YKUdvOdviyIHhJWhi4BGCDUIRopVFtNezuyrATTPmzE-eULSSnJ5r_eXhoWvq_g/w320-h216/SEASIDE+RR+1910+or+1911.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">One would think that this original “South End” always played second fiddle to what we view as the heart of Salisbury Beach. However, it was a true hub “back in the day”, by which I mean from the latter half of the 1800’s up until its twilight era from the late 1920’s to the early 1930’s. Ferry passenger service from Plum Island and Newburyport proper, as well as regular steamboat service from up-river livened both the waters and the landscape around Salisbury Point and Black Rocks. To bridge the transportation gap between Black Rocks and what we know as the Beach Center, a horse-car line was installed, later replaced by a steam “dummy” line, called the Seaside Railway but just as often simply referred to as "the dummy", which itself was subsequently upgraded to the “electric”. In contrast with the current state road that runs a straight course from Beach Road to the river, riding high above the marshes, it more closely hugged the shore, running from Salisbury Point, the tip of land from which the jetty extends, to Broadway. Such knowledge explains why we have Railroad Avenue; no physical evidence remains, however, to signal that we once had rail service along the ocean between the beach center and the south end of the beach. The gradual waning in popularity of the electric in the 1920’s can be attributed, not immediately to private automobiles, but to bus (or “jitney”) service. And, of course, automobiles supplanted all other modes of transportation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">In the same way that evolving needs and desires - and nature’s forces – will re-shape the appearance and designs of a landscape, Black Rocks underwent its own metamorphosis. Its transformation has at times been gradual and subtle; the River’s ever-shifting channel, for example, reminds one of the fickleness of nature. Likewise, the first wave of cottagers who craved the closeness of the water were – cyclically, it seemed – urged to move their structures back from the edge, especially after the most powerful storms. Years would pass, complacency would set in, and the cottages would once again be lifted off their pilings and moved closer to water’s edge. And so it went, at least until the ominous arrival of the Salisbury Beach Associates (SBA), aka “The Three Associates”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Transformation of the Black Rocks section of the Beach at other times has been – arguably – more consequential. Thus, as the Beach Center drew ever-growing numbers of day-trippers, weekenders, and other folks who craved the shinier enticements that imaginative business entrepreneurs were dreaming up at a staggering rate, Black Rocks gradually lost its appeal as the nucleus of seaside escape and revelry. The1930’s marked its grimmest period of deterioration, and the local citizenry recognized the peril that sustained neglect would occasion. It was a very difficult moment of reckoning for the Salisbury community, and it was precisely at that historical juncture when it ceased to be just a local concern or a source of worry for Salisbury’s self-styled benefactors, the Salisbury Beach Associates, who still held the lion’s share of deeds for much of the beach area. In reaching out to the Commonwealth, local politicians framed their arguments as messianic proposals to “clean up Salisbury Beach”. The tactic of couching their appeals for appropriations and labor in a way that made transparent what was wrong with our beach had the predictable yet unfortunate effect of causing immense shame.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The event that would, in my opinion, most dramatically transform the space in both appearance and purpose was born out of this perceived crisis. First, in 1933, the state acquired the 4.5 mile stretch of beachfront (a steal at under $30,000!); a mere 2 years later, the town ceded (according to a Boston Globe article dated 23, April, 1950) an additional “520 barren treeless acres” to the state. (Fifteen years later, in 1950, people still bemoaned the absence of trees.) With this new and enduring arrangement, the town was able to benefit, if indirectly, from the grand designs of the state. And this is the part of the Rez’s story that will have the ring of familiarity, for the state proposed a park that would draw visitors, not just from the customary upriver places such as Lowell, Lawrence and Haverhill, but from the western part of the state, as well as from bordering states. (It was everyone’s good fortune that, through chance timing, much of the labor was funded through Works Progress Administration ((WPA)), Civil Conservation Corps ((CCC)), and Federal Emergency Relief Administration funds made available as part of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s sweeping New Deal programs, and in each case administered by the state.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Throughout Salisbury’s history there has been strong evidence to show our community’s sense of team play and good will. It was true in 1812, 1863, and 1942 when the federal government established military installations at Black Rocks. It has been true, also, whenever common interests summon cooperation – such as concerns, for example, the welfare of our shared Merrimack River. In many ways, as hard as it sometimes is to reconcile that so much of Salisbury’s cherished beach was surrendered to the Commonwealth, the symbiotic nature of the relationship really does work in the favor of Salisbury’s citizens. Each year (with perhaps the exception of 2020) the Reservation employs local people, as well as attracts countless visitors happy to spend in our stores, restaurants, etc. We still are able, too, – at any time of the year – to frolic in the ferocious surf (but only if one is insane), do some beachcombing, launch a boat for a day’s or just a morning’s fishing, marvel at the beautiful scenery, raise a pricey monocular to site the perennial snowy owl or the harbor seals that have hauled out on Badger’s Rocks, enjoy a picnic, cast a line from the river’s edge, fly a kite. . . need I go on? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">As someone whose formative years were (relatively) far from the ocean, I regard Salisbury Beach State Reservation as a blessing. . . a gift. In my mind, to really appreciate its charms, you have to be able to measure it against places that don’t have a long stretch of beautiful ocean (and, of course, river). Sure, I still consider myself a bit of a rookie even though my husband and I moved here with our 2 young daughters “way back” in 1985. I’m trying to fit together all the historical moments that have shaped its present character. One day I imagine I’ll be able to declare, <i>aHA! It all makes perfect sense now</i>. I have still so much to learn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-35676314995506458512021-02-11T07:48:00.007-08:002021-11-16T11:03:35.081-08:00Bark-Bark-Bark<p> <span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Signing up for a Master Class on writing is a great idea.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">That is, until your dogs start galloping around the house because they heard a tiny something irregular outside.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe it was one of my neighbors driving up our private street.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe it was a dog barking three miles away.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I didn’t hear it.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was that faint.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">But the natural response – if you’re a dog – is to go ballistic and bark-bark-bark your way from the family room, through the kitchen, on to the living room, reverse, through the kitchen, on to the family room, to the kitchen, back to the family room, back to the kitchen.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Bark-bark-bark.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So, Neil Gaiman’s thoughtful words about “subvert the familiar” don’t reach me the first time through; I see his mouth moving, his splayed hands reaching forward to add meaningful punctuation to something he was imparting.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m forced to replay that particular recommendation.</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Bark-bark-bark.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">How did I end up signing up for a Master Class on writing? It began yesterday morning when I decided I wanted to enroll in a masters degree program on writing. I googled “best online degree programs writing”. I navigated over to bestdegreeprograms.org, because everyone knows that .org is the stamp of legitimacy. I didn’t recognize the first in a list of 30-best, so I clicked on the second one, Southern New Hampshire University, because I did. Of course I was fully aware that for the next who knows how long, I would be seeing sidebar ads for anything to do with academia. In short order, I had “requested information”; no sooner had I clicked that button, and my phone rang. Literally, it was “no sooner”, which I found vexing because my eyes had just begun to read what I could/should be doing in preparation for my call from an admissions person. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Hi, this is Tam. How are you today? Have you had a chance to think of questions for us?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Well, Tam, no, as I just clicked the ‘request information’ button 7 seconds ago.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Ha-ha-ha. So, do you? Have questions?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">I had questions. . . plenty, not the least of which was, “Can I transfer credits for some classes I took a few years ago when I was first contemplating a writing program?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif"> “Well, how long ago? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“1989”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Oooooohh, we usually only accept up to five years.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Is that because our brains decline and we don’t remember anything beyond five years?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Ha-ha-ha. It’s. . .uh. . . just our policy, but you can make your case for it if you feel strongly.” </span><span face="Candara, sans-serif">(Of course I feel strongly. . . now. . . 32 years later.)</span><span face="Candara, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">Before I hung up, I had promises of “We’ll send you the program description and the application link. We’ll send you the instructions to set up your student portal, also a link to our newsletter. And, oh(!) an authentic ‘Petey the Penman’ quill and inkstand, also an autographed glossy of Petey.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">“Wait, <i>what?</i>” This last rejoinder was you, and I inserted it just to see if you were still with me. (But, honestly, their mascot is a strapping, colonial dude with muscular thighs and shoulders, powdered wig, dancing eyes and <i>impossibly straight, white teeth</i>. (That last part needs to be read twice for dramatic historical anachronism.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">Tam then delivered as promised. She sent about 200 email messages with all relevant information and links. She sure was efficient. But, here’s where up became down, and down up. Tam wasn’t Tam. Tam was Tim, and not – obviously – a middle-aged woman whose smoking habit had imparted her with a deep, sultry voice. So, I sat perfectly still for about five minutes, while my brain ratcheted up its synaptic function in a panicked effort at recall; I had a desperate need to reconstruct the conversation. How did I not know that Tam was a man? And, did I have a different kind of conversation because I thought I was talking with a middle-aged woman? Would I have said things differently? Would my off-hand comments have been more geared towards a young man? Would I have even resorted to my usual quips about age and spent brain cells and, gosh, timessurehavechanged? (It did seem as if my jokiness was not landing as deftly as I am accustomed to, although I may be casting it all in a different light given my “new knowledge”.) It was a very revealing moment for me, for I realized how much we must tailor our speech depending on the presumed gender and age of the other person, even if the objective remains constant on both sides. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">So, I’ve naturally concluded that SNHU is not the school for me. I couldn’t bear the thought of running into Tim. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">But, before I struck SNHU from my one-item list, I texted my niece, Michaela. She is my reliable go-to when I want an enthusiastic <i>yes, do it!</i> Michaela said, <i>Yes, do it!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">For comparison’s sake, I investigated University of Iowa’s program, too. I’d like to say that when I added up all the dollars for the total number of credits, that that was the reason for abandoning the idea of another master’s program. It’s much more likely that I considered how big a commitment it would be, and, as my closest family members and friends know, I am averse to commitment. Even making weekend plans or - worse - deciding what to thaw for dinner causes me to squirm. And I always have to have an exit or escape strategy. For this reason, I’m called “Bolt” by my most observant siblings, because that’s often what I end up doing. They’re very funny people.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif">The logical conclusion to this story is that I signed up for a Master Class. I’m thoroughly enjoying Neil Gaiman’s – when I can hear his words between the bark-bark-bark of my dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;"><span face="Candara, sans-serif"> </span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-20385963436992745302021-02-10T12:19:00.004-08:002021-06-10T06:06:23.501-07:00An Angry Liberal<p> <span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Dear Trump disciples,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">I understand your distressed feelings as you witness your messiah being held to account for the lawless and treasonous behavior of some within your cohort. It hurts, I’m sure. It makes you angry, even. He was your savior, the first person – of means (and unrestrained power, we must not forget) – to listen to, and give voice to, your grievances, your frustrations (<i>I’m a hardworking American. . . a patriot; I pay my dues, and all I want to do is provide for my family. I don’t want to be ignored. I don’t want to be replaced by foreigners who speak American with funny accents and don’t know our customs and our ways). </i>When he said he’d bring back your America, show the world that you’d not been put on the sidelines; you put every ounce of your fragile trust in him. Now those radical liberals, the superintendents of the swamp, are trying to permanently silence and castrate him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">So, while you might not have contemplated for a moment your own participation in a violent insurrection at our Nation’s Capitol (because, yes, that would be treason and very unpatriotic), you don’t blame the lawless hordes who charged the nerve center of our Democracy, armed with all manner of weapon, inflated and misguided purpose, and rage. They were only acting on your commander’s entreaties to “stop the steal”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">But here’s the thing: Your man lost the election. He didn’t have as many votes – electoral or popular – as Joe Biden. That’s 74,222,960 vs. 81,283,361. Do you see how that works? Election officials and staff were not engaged in acts of subterfuge, there were no systemic irregularities, and there were no voting system software manipulations of tallies. As one of the voters for the winning side, I want to say that, fragile egos aside, you need to accept the results, even if your man refuses to do so. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">It frightens me that so many of you are susceptible to conspiracies that prop up your wished-for goals. It’s not that I naturally have greater insight into the truths that in one way or another may impact my life or the lives of those closest to me. It’s that I approach statements of “fact” with just a modicum of skepticism; one is wise to prove any new facts before accepting them as truth. So, stop accepting cockamamie conspiracy theories, stop propagating lies, pay attention to the science behind claims. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">And here’s another thing: your “boss” is a master manipulator. He says all the things that you want to hear, and soothes your wounded egos. <i>He knows how dangerous those illegal immigrants are, the rapists and murderers crossing our southern border. He knows, too, that anything his predecessor achieved while in office is bad for the country. He knows, too, that the tax re-structuring he implemented with his “Tax Cut and Jobs Act” favored the little guy; his sharp instincts foresaw that when corporations reaped the rewards of a 14% rate reduction, their innate generosity would translate into hefty wage increases for their employees. Only his genius could imagine a better way for all of you</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">And here’s the final thing: our 45<sup>th</sup> president fomented an insurrection. His words propelled an angry mob to perpetrate barbarous acts in order to overthrow the results of a fair election. The inescapable issue is his deeply flawed and reprehensible personality. He came into office with it, and without doubt he’ll carry it with him throughout the rest of his life. His insecurities, it must be pointed out, are dangerous to our country’s security. If he is not held to account, his pernicious behaviors will continue, our nation will not heal, and an ominous precedent will have been set. Willful ignorance where it involves that man is inexcusable. You need to open your eyes to the truth. <span face="Eurostile, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Trump’s only agenda had been whatever aligned with his own selfish interests and succeeded in inflating his autocratic image, as well as stroking his narcissism just the right way. In fact, it still is his agenda, and always has been, always will be.</span><span face="-webkit-standard"></span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span> Moreover, he didn’t lose because the election was stolen; he lost because the numbers were greater on the side of people who are sick of his incompetence and toxicity. I was one of those voters, and make no mistake, while I accept your disappointment that your man lost, it enrages me that 1) you call yourselves American patriots, and 2) you think that my vote is somehow expendable, somehow less legitimate than yours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">One Angry Liberal<o:p></o:p></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-90873257206014070542021-02-05T13:13:00.015-08:002021-06-10T06:07:41.399-07:00The Perennial Neophyte<p style="text-align: center;"><b> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="text-align: center;">I. The McKennas Arrive in Salisbury, the Year is 1985</span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When my husband George and I first moved to Salisbury, Massachusetts in October of 1985, from the moment of arrival I felt we’d made a mistake. No, that’s not quite true. My doubts had already been growing during all the negotiations leading up to that day. The homeowners selling the house made the process impossibly unpleasant, and as there was no broker in between us, hence no voice of reason nor any way to blunt all their miserableness, we endured a steady barrage of sheer meanness right through the closing. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The skeptics among you are probably right now thinking, it takes two to tango. Fair point. The only thing that might have contributed to the sellers’ looniness was my husband’s plodding pace. George was a shrewd consumer, and no one, absolutely NO ONE, was going to rush his first home purchase.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Perhaps, too, you’re not getting the most honest assessment from me regarding their behavior. Were they really that unpleasant, really that <i>mean</i>? I’ll allow that, being in my final trimester of pregnancy with my second daughter, some of my actions weren’t characterized by reasonableness. And we were already running out the clock on our eviction. Ok, I realize that that last statement in no way casts a more favorable light on me (or us, because George was in that bucket with me). Disclaimer: the eviction was a <i>planned </i>one; the landlords were selling the house, and the new owners were doing a complete renovation. Hopefully, I’ve cleared that up so there are no lingering reservations.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As I began to say (and then proceeded to dig myself into a good-size hole), I was thinking that we’d made a mistake in moving to Salisbury. The day we moved in, George arrived in the rental truck with most of our possessions just ahead of me. I was following a couple minutes behind in our pick-up truck. We didn’t have a ton of stuff, primarily infant and toddler toys and accessories. When I pulled up the long serpentine driveway and put the truck in park, my older daughter, just four years old, leaped from the passenger side and began to run toward the truck. As she was running, I saw the rental truck’s back-up lights go on, and George began, inexplicably, to back the truck. I think I blared my horn. To this day I’m not even sure. I can’t hear it in my mind’s recollection of that terrifying moment. I have no trouble envisioning my tiny daughter right behind the truck, with raised arms; to each side of her, a frighteningly ominous round white glow. Was she suddenly aware that the truck was backing up and, therefore, trying to signal, <i>STOP!</i> Or had she raised her arms to be scooped up by her daddy? The truck bobbed as George put it back in park, and hopped out. He hadn’t heard or seen anything. He had simply changed his mind about backing up. The scene replayed in my head for months. I still get slightly nauseous thinking about that day and <i>what if</i>. So, yes, I was convinced we’d made a mistake moving to Salisbury.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>II. A Blank, Asphalt-Surfaced Canvas<o:p></o:p></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Neither of us had a point of reference for our new community. Salisbury, Massachusetts. I’d never so much as passed through the town. George had only a hazy recollection of having visited the beach in his early days as a student at North Shore Community College. It wasn’t even clear to us what or where the Merrimack Valley was. Whatever it was, it had to be better than the affordable neighborhoods we had been looking at for several months on the North Shore; who wants to live beside a river made toxic by a long history of tannery dumping? Or a house that sits simultaneously at the edge of a good neighborhood and the edge of a bad neighborhood with the highest robbery rate in the city? These were houses we could afford. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Based on a brief introduction to the house in Salisbury and the lot it sat on, we enthusiastically shook hands with the sellers, I’ll call them Cheswick and Betty Finch, and began a new chapter. And even though they were moving to a shiny new house (the second one that Cheswick had built) a couple of miles away, they radiated signs of unspoken regret. As we gradually came to know our house, I couldn’t help but feel that we had taken over their “dream” house, the house where early on they had constructed their dreams, and much later on dismantled them. Cheswick and Betty had moved into their new little ranch home at the same age as we were when we moved in. One difference, one that I often wondered about over the years, was: had they not wanted children; was that a choice? Of course, before my heart had had a chance to soften toward them, I thought, <i>thank goodness they never had kids; can you imagine having </i>them<i> as parents? </i>It was an unkind thought, I know.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Located in the Plains section of Salisbury, the northern "uplands" sector of the town, our house was amusingly referred to as “The Backwards House”, which we knew before we signed, and while that particular didn’t concern us – in fact, we ourselves found it quite humorous and endearing – the sellers were indignant about the moniker. The Finches had finished construction of the 4-room ranch house in 1950, right before crews for the Massachusetts Department of Public Works leaned into their shovels in the final construction project of the “Relocated Route 1”, (a 21-mile stretch of expressway, later renamed Route I-95 to better align with the naming conventions for the entire eastern continental network). It would result in the taking of the homeowners’ front yard for Massachusetts’ last exit ramps onto and off of the Northeast Expressway, just shy of the connection with the New Hampshire Turnpike. As George and I saw it, the prickliness that we observed throughout the real estate negotiations must have had its beginnings when they were forced to hand over their front yard. (Think about it, not an insignificant back corner of their 1+ acre lot, but their <i>front yard</i>). They mentioned this detail more than once. The forced taking of land was not the only source of their discontent. . . as we would soon learn.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">George and I happily set about making the little ranch our home. We weren’t guilty of too many first-home ownership mistakes, but we did go a little nuts with paint and wallpaper. We didn’t, however, throw up a line of trees or a fence to make clear to everyone where our boundaries were, as people sometimes do, as if their new proprietary role were in some way a tenuous one, and they need defining lines to announce, <i>here to here; that’s the McKennas’ property</i>. There were enough trees already sprinkled about the lot, with denser vegetation at the borders, and well-established shrubbery and flowers. Both my city-boy husband and I were satisfied with the country feel of the place. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Where our lot lines began and ended was of significance at the outset. George and I quickly learned that a couple who owned property further down the street had discovered that they had no access to some of their acreage. Roy and Alice Cheney had used the courts to adjudicate the matter, but lost, even after appeal. This had all happened before we came on the scene.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">With neither delay nor a welcoming floral arrangement in hand, Roy and Alice approached us about deeding them a right-of-way. Politely we refused. We were happy with our new property, and a bit skeptical of this brusque, bossy couple. It was with a few misgivings, then, that George agreed to have a sit-down with them in our kitchen; I was at work, and, anyway, had no interest in listening to their carefully scripted argument as to why we should part with a small segment of our lot. Let me just say – yes, even overstate – that I WASN’T THERE while my husband recorded the meeting; I cannot be held responsible for violating the two-party consent law. And this is what you need to appreciate: two very large human beings entered our miniscule “dining room” (which is what the Finches had called the 5’ x 5’ corner of our kitchen when they had defended their ad for a “5-room ranch-style home” that was no more than a 4-room ranch-style home), and laid out their reasons why we should grant them – thuggish bullies used to getting their way – a right of way, one that would give us a modest clutch of tens and twenties, and virtually nothing else. How I knew – innocently – about the proceedings is because. . . I called in the middle of them. At this point George was in a sweat because it had occurred to him that his camcorder, a device no smaller than a dairy cow – it was, after all, 1986 – hidden in a house plant, which also would have been massive in size to adequately camouflage the dairy cow, would soon begin emitting a beep-beep-beep to signal a dying battery. At this point you might be wondering to what end were we recording a discovery-type conversation, to which I can only say we were naïve real estate newbies and, as such, uncertain about our homeowner status.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">George held his ground; he was, after all, a man with an unparalleled sense of reason. And while we dodged something early on that will always remain a little bit undefined, what we quickly came to understand within the walls of the backwards house was that the Cheneys and the Finches were locked in a bitter, never-ending feud. For our part, we simply wanted to prune the rhododendrons, plant new things like azaleas (and then transplant when we realized that placing them underneath a basketball hoop was ill-advised), and re-surface – together – the only asphalt-surfaced driveway in the neighborhood. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The hard-surface driveway was our means to meet all the kids in the neighborhood. There’s always heightened curiosity when someone new moves into the neighborhood. <i>Do they have kids? Are they friendly? Will they let us use their driveway to skateboard on or ride our bikes on?</i> The Finches had never allowed anyone on their driveway – especially if you were a human being under the age of, say, 21. Josh was the first kid we met on our street; he was cheerful, adept at handling adults, and very direct; he wanted to know, would we be okay if kids used our driveway. (Why wouldn’t we be?) And, that, of course, altered the course of history. Within hours, our driveway became the nexus of all manner of kid-centered activities. You have no idea how imaginative a brigade of 10-year olds (or so) can be in the context of an asphalt-surfaced driveway, on a dirt road, no less. Of a sudden, our driveway thrummed with bicycles, big-wheels, jump-ropes, skip-its, pogo-balls, and colored chalk. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And I smiled. This is <i>exactly </i>the kind of dream I had imagined.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b>III. I Quit!</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It hadn’t been part of the plan that George and I would move to a new home, fill all the rooms with our old, featureless furniture, and then begin negotiations. Life wasn’t getting simpler (does it ever?), now that we had a new home, new baby, and a more challenging commute. (The commute wasn’t really all that more challenging). Imagine the couple who sinks all their savings into a down payment for their first home purchase, and then the wife says, “Honey, I’m quitting my job.” But here’s the thing: with the birth of each of my girls, it was obvious - to me and everyone I worked closely with - that I had in both cases returned to work way too soon. My older daughter had been 8 weeks old when I began the daily hand-off; not ideal, but not too impossible; my second daughter was 4 weeks old, and that nearly put me around the bend. In neither case did I have daycare that met <i>my </i>expectations. Even now, when one or the other of my girls exhibits anything but the most well-adjusted behavior, I secretly attribute it to an imagined trauma inflicted by a care provider that we should have vetted more carefully. Is anyone really good enough for that job? Nope, not unless it’s the child’s own parent, right? Thus, within weeks of the move, I would give my notice at the insurance company where I worked in Salem.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 2in; text-indent: 0.5in;"> * * *<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 27pt;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Book";">For parents of young children, the 1980’s were, in some ways, “in-between” years; according to the Bureau of Labor & Statistics, by 1980 the percentage of families with both parents working had tipped into the majority, yet the constructs and support systems that young families were desperate for in order to sustain that type of lifestyle were still years away from being fixed or reliable features of family life. Without any dependable mechanisms designed specifically to alleviate the stresses that accompanied the dual roles of parenting and full-time work, it’s no wonder, then, that at that same point in time more women were choosing to delay pregnancy, even repudiate the whole thing. For our generation, the two words “working” and “mother” were conjoined, and that became the norm. Regrettably, it was left to these babes in the wood to figure out how to make it all work. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 27pt;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Book";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 27pt;"><span style="font-family: "Avenir Book";">Forty years later, our country still lags in accommodating young families. For example, as of 2021, we’re the only industrialized nation that has no permanent paid family leave policy. Having navigated those troublesome waters long ago, I still would maintain that it is a pretty sizable omission. We do have an <i>unpaid </i>family leave policy, one that provides an out for companies with fewer than 50 employees. It is at least somewhat heartening to know, however, that of late, businesses have been relaxing their oppositional stance; an overwhelming majority now are in favor of a government leave plan. It has perhaps taken a pandemic for employers to concede that, apart from ethical reasons, offering paid family leave makes practical business sense.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 27pt;"><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 27pt;"><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"> * * *</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 2in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0in 2in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It may be that under more forgiving circumstances, I would have stayed on at the insurance company. As it was, however, I was performing a menial job with rigid work hours and low pay, and I had yet to make any meaningful and lasting connections with any of the people with whom I was working (even after six years). (What that in itself says about me is a topic best covered in sessions with a therapist, which I currently don’t have, so I can’t say “<i>my</i> therapist”). While it was easy for me to walk away from my claims rep job, the decision to become a stay-at-home mom was one that George and I arrived at together, of course. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It must be said that from the moment we met, George and I enjoyed great conversations. It was really the first time that I was in a relationship with someone who cared what I thought and believed, who (like my mother, but unlike me) thought I was smart and could do anything I set my mind to. Moreover, my guy was refreshingly “in touch with his own feelings”. We had such deep conversations. It was intoxicating. This city boy, whose ambitions far exceeded the expectations of a father who dropped out of school in the tenth grade and a mother who regularly - and happily - kept us in the loop about her marriages by means of informally scrawled postcards, had fierce survival instincts. Be that as it may, inner doubts sometimes kept him silent. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For my part, in the early years I wasn’t an empowered, confident woman; I very much took my cues from George. And while I’d like to think that I simply presented the most compelling reasons as to why I should quit my job, there very well could have been an undisclosed variable, a secret reason why George was open to my impassioned appeal. <span style="font-size: 12pt;">(If so, it was just one among many private thoughts that he would take to the grave with him.) </span>Thus, I broke ranks with my generation, an entire cohort that was eschewing the traditional family dynamic. Put another way, at the very moment in history when the traditional family became a minority class, when even the term “traditional family” became obsolete, I was re-creating that construct for my own little family. I reveled in my new role as stay-at-home mom; it scarcely mattered - at least at first - that I lived in a working-class neighborhood where nearly every adult worked full time. In my compact world life was simple and tidy. I’ve never been one who thrives on complexity and fast-paced activity; I’m not even a quick thinker. Viewed now from a distance of 35 years and a lifetime of gathering experience and wisdom, I can confidently say that I was my <i>happiest </i>version in the four years (between 1985 and 1989) that I orchestrated and led the McKenna Family Experiment. </p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-57484622721124041812021-02-02T07:32:00.002-08:002021-06-10T06:08:22.660-07:00The Things I'm Wondering About<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;">When I try to make sense of the world around me, I maybe sometimes overthink the situation.<span> </span>Other times I’m just trying to do the right thing (or trying to get away with minimal – but acceptable – effort), absent a thorough working knowledge of the context in question.<span> </span>And sometimes, my imagination hijacks me and there’s no leaping from that train once it’s left the station. <span> </span>In that case, I invite you along for the ride.<span> </span>Here’s a brief study in how my brain processes information. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;"><span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Eurostile",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Eurostile; mso-fareast-font-family: Eurostile; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;">Do the cellophane windows on the spaghetti and tissue boxes that I sometimes am too lazy to remove, mess up the recyclers at the sorting center; will they have to halt their sorting in order to peel them off?<span> </span>Or, does it merely interrupt their flow as their brains wrangle with, “is it cardboard or is it plastic?”<span> </span>And, how picky must I be about how clean the cat food cans should be?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Eurostile",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Eurostile; mso-fareast-font-family: Eurostile; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;">Do those different strains of coronavirus have <i>smart brains</i> that allow them to understand what we’re doing to try to eradicate them.<span> </span>That they mutate so quickly has me worried.<span> </span>It brings to mind the mosquito, which I detest (almost as much as the tick).<span> </span>Scientists these days can’t possibly be getting any quality sleep, since every time they have a sure-fire recipe to wipe out the population, the community mosquito leaders are already a step ahead.<span> </span>Those liver-spotted, august capos of the disease-carrying, flying insect world have, hidden from human view, two or three uniquely qualified member-representatives that are safely bunkered somewhere in Middle Earth.<span> </span>These mosquito designees, the finest specimens of strength and vitality, pass their days, alternatively working out, playing cards, and making fun of each other, all the while awaiting “The Call” from their FEMA-like headquarters.<span> </span>It goes something like this: “It’s happening. . . (gasp). . . They’ve begun. . . (gasp). . . the Extermination.<span> </span>(Gasp). Prepare to. . . (gasp). . . enter. . . (gasp). . . the battlefield. . . (unintelligible). . . samples. . . (choke). . . analyze.<span> </span>(Final burst of animation) BEGIN ANEW!<span> </span>MAKE MOSQUITOS GREAT AGAIN!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Eurostile",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Eurostile; mso-fareast-font-family: Eurostile; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;">If it were based entirely on advertising, what will future generations conclude about us, say, in 100 years?<span> </span>Will they think us quaint for dressing our dogs in cute jackets, ones that match our own?<span> </span>Will they shake their heads with impatience over our absorption with clothing labels? <span> </span>When I browse newspapers from one hundred years ago, I’m amazed at how much advertising space is taken up with promises to cure all the mundane as well as embarrassing ailments.<span> </span>This one invites comment: “People Constipated and Don’t Know it”.<span> </span>The ad for Dr. True’s Elixir explains for the simple-minded target audience that your bowels get full of waste matter, and then expel only about the same amount that goes into it in the form of food.”<span> </span>Ok, so my comment would be redundant here, don’t you think?<span> </span>The wildly successful inventor, Lydia Pinkham, had “proven” cures for women’s ailments, as if everything that happened uniquely – and naturally – to women were considered a disorder; for example, to treat “hysteria”, her vegetable-based elixir brought about a sense of calm.<span> </span>But, isn’t it just possible that Pinkham had over-tweaked the percentage of alcohol in her formula?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0in 0.25in; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #2e75b6; font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><span style="font-family: Eurostile, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0px;">Surely, you all have similar thought trajectories, yes?</span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: medium; text-indent: 0px;"></span></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-17013913747243176032021-01-10T10:13:00.002-08:002021-06-10T06:09:12.644-07:00 A Matter of Days<p> <b style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">10 January 2021 </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Given the appalling attack on our Capitol by domestic terrorists four days ago, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the nation is in dire crisis.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">It astounds me that nearly all of our Republican lawmakers, at the same time as they recoil in disgust from the events that resulted in the loss of 5 lives and left parts of the building in shambles, have adopted a “well, gee, we only have a handful of days left to endure Trump’s shenanigans (as if that is the proper way to describe his behavior); let’s stay the course and not do anything rash.”</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Consider other moments of crisis in our nation’s history, and weigh the practicality of just hanging in there and doing nothing. Where would we be?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">When confronted on October 24, 1962 with aerial images of Cuba’s build-up of nuclear missiles (courtesy of Russia), did President Kennedy inform his Ex-Comm that he preferred to wait it out? A mere 12 days later, after a tense back-and-forth at the highest levels, the crisis had been averted, as a lengthy, discursive letter from Khrushchev to Kennedy demonstrates. Both leaders recognized the greater existential threat that the standoff represented. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">When Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese on December 7, 1941, did FDR stroke his jaw in idle thought and say, <i>Let’s wait and see what Hirohito’s next move is? </i>His response was swift, but controlled, and reflective of an objective view of the facts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Thus, while these two examples are illustrative of foreign threats, and the prompt responses were at the executive level of federal government, there is much to be learned from them. In the first place, both leaders recognized the gravity of the situation. More significantly, however, they understood the profound implications if they failed to extinguish the threat. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Make no mistake: the deadly uprising at the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021 was an angry and deluded attempt <i>by U.S. citizens </i>to dismantle our democratic ideals. It was masterminded by the very man entrusted with our nation’s security, a traitor in every sense of the word. Underneath all the rhetoric and despite misguided maneuvers by some members of Congress, I have to believe that they <i>all </i>know how dangerous this one man is. His unrestrained appeals - born of deep insecurities – to continue the “fight” to assure his continuation on his “throne” (whatever it takes) have reached willing ears. As uninformed as the current president is regarding history, the American citizenry, and the true nature of his responsibilities; he has been careful in his language. Section 1 of the Terrorism Act of 2006 clarifies for us what constitutes criminal liability, however, including direct, as well as <i>indirect</i> exhortations to commit a crime. It seems important to point out that the people who descended on the Capitol with zip-tie handcuffs, pipe bombs, and delusions about a stolen election, were of one mind; through force they would wrest presidential victory for their Republican savior.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Make no mistake: the signs are obvious that the perpetrators have unfinished business. While the ceaseless and vast media coverage allows the insurgents’ chests to fill with pride and their chins to tilt up haughtily over what they have thus far achieved, they remain frustrated that their end goal wasn’t realized. They fully intend to nullify what should be the incontestable results of a free and fair election, and they have not just our President’s blessing on their side, but his incessant urging to resist the outcome. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">For rational-minded people, the solution to this crisis is simple - remove this president from office. . . immediately. An objective view of the facts leaves no doubt as to his treasonous behavior, and that he represents a clear and present danger. Moreover, by sitting and doing nothing, our Republican leaders are implying that the Constitution is meaningless; either that, or they have cowardly abandoned the oaths they promised to uphold when originally sworn in. The drafters of our Constitution were perhaps dazzled by the patriotism and sense of unity exhibited by the new nation’s citizens; nevertheless, they weren’t naïve about future prospects for treachery and other events that would threaten the Union. For this reason, they included various clauses (Article I, Sections 2 and 3, as well as Article II, Sections 2 and 4) that would safeguard our democracy. It has always been acknowledged that the reason the Constitution didn’t include provisions that more clearly delineated corrupt behavior was because the insertion of impeachment clauses would present a mechanism for establishing and addressing such. (Bear in mind, also, that when Kennedy’s assassination made evident that our Constitution lacked a provision for presidential succession, the 25<sup>th</sup> Amendment was ratified, a piece of legislation that can be generously interpreted.) We always have impeachment, one might comfortably aver; yet history shows a fair amount of dust accumulates on top of that part of the Constitution. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Why the stubbornness? And why the “paralysis by analysis”? In this moment we would do well to adopt General Ulysses S. Grant’s position when all his aides were fluttering around him, waiting for signs of General Lee’s next move in the Battle of the Wilderness, May of 1864. (See: <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2019/10/05/politics/ulysses-grant-trump-impeachment/index.html" style="color: #954f72;">https://www.cnn.com/2019/10/05/politics/ulysses-grant-trump-impeachment/index.html</a>). The implication here is (and I direct my comments to our United States Congress): take control of the situation; don’t make your next move a reaction to this dangerous adversary’s. You’re in possession of the facts; take action. Remove this president.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-42808973642281567922020-12-30T18:18:00.004-08:002021-06-10T06:09:40.034-07:00 Considerate judgment of mankind<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">I turned on ABC/Good Morning America to catch the local weather report, which then happened to fly by me without me paying attention till the last second.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Instead, I clued in to the next piece, a disturbingly familiar one these days:</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">an African-American father with his teenage son were passing through the lobby of a hotel in which they were guests when a young woman accosted the son, accusing him of having stolen her phone.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">The short video clip shows a white woman raving and demanding intervention on her behalf by strangers; she appears to be certain, both in her claim of victimization and her belief that surrounding “witnesses” will automatically step in and take the young black man’s phone and hand it to her.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif">Each part of that is so troubling.</span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It took the murder of George Floyd under the knee of a malevolent police officer in May of this year to force an uncomfortable national conversation about a loathsome pattern (and practice) in American society. I can’t even bring myself to say “current” society, because, as much as I do believe our 45<sup>th</sup> president has shown himself to be perfectly and embarrassingly giddy about the way his worshipful followers have carried out his own hateful designs, if there is one truth I have come to better appreciate this year it is that the components and characteristics of a racist society have always been there, waxing and waning in intensity. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We are all complicit if we avert our collective gaze when, for example, neo-Nazis strut in our midst, aggressively wagging their AK-47’s (as if to proclaim, <i>we know we’re inadequate; that’s why we carry guns)</i>. We are complicit if we tsk-tsk and mumble a <i>how unfortunate – </i>thinking that’s good enough to convey our opposition – when peaceful protesters are teargassed by federal marshals. We are complicit each time a person of color is unfairly kept from profiting from the “American Experience” that the rest of us enjoy. And, historically speaking, on every occasion when efforts have resulted in seemingly ironclad promises to level the playing field, the counter-response has revealed an ugliness about how we treat our fellow citizens. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We never really did critically (and adequately) examine the Emancipation Proclamation when we studied it in 11<sup>th</sup> grade (or, at least, <i>I</i> didn’t give it close scrutiny). Crafted foremost with a mind toward potential military advantage, it was conceived for the wrong reasons; as such, despite Abraham Lincoln’s invocation of “the considerate judgment of mankind”, it didn’t free all slaves, only those in Confederate states, and it neatly avoided all matters of citizenship. (The thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth amendments to the Constitution would have to legislate what should have come naturally in a so-called “evolved” and humane society.) What the measure couldn’t adequately do was squelch the rise of Jim Crow laws. In essence, what it couldn’t do was put into place safeguards so that freed slaves – ultimately all African Americans – wouldn’t be subjected to predictable, hostile acts of bitter resentment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Jumping ahead nearly one hundred years, a similar reactionary behavior was exhibited in the wake of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. (For an engaging read – but one that will break your heart, get a copy of Jerry Mitchell’s 2020 release of <i>Race Against Time: A Reporter Reopens the Unsolved Murder Cases of the Civil Rights Era). </i> Once again, we bear witness to our nation endeavoring to right a wrong, only to provoke repugnant displays of miserliness and indecency. Apparently, we just can’t help ourselves; at every opportunity to right the wrongs, in every historical moment when the moral high ground generously presents itself as an option, we reflexively show cowardice. Are we that afraid of <span face="Eurostile, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">forfeiting privileges that we merely inherited?</span> I freely admit that I have been a lousy Catholic; I don’t attend mass, so the practicing piece of my faith is regularly challenged. I often, however, find myself saying, <i>there but for the grace of God go I. </i>That’s not enough, though. I shouldn’t simply be grateful that I don’t suffer the injustices that others endure by virtue of skin color. I ought to be uttering these words, <i>whatsoever you do for the least of my brothers, you do for me.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span face="Eurostile, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As this distressing year comes to a close, I vow to more critically examine how I personally respond when witnessing instances of injustice, and to do a better job of voicing opposition. Opposition is clearly not enough, however. If I can say I’m part of the solution, then maybe that will put me on the right path. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Oh, and that young woman who ranted like a lunatic in the hotel lobby? Her Uber driver found her phone in the back seat of his car. Worth thinking about: what if the roles had been reversed, and it was – in all its unlikeliness – the black man and his teenage son<i> </i>charging into a random hotel,<i> </i>grabbing the young white woman and accusing her of theft? Right now, she’s not in jail (and would not even be under investigation were it not for the fact that a video of the event went viral), but would the <i>black teenager </i>have been graced with the same consideration, the same “deliberate and measured” approach? Moreover, shame on the hotel manager who insisted that the boy comply with the deranged woman’s exhortation that he produce the phone for her inspection <i>when she wasn’t even a guest at the hotel. </i>Really! Sometimes outrage is the perfect and necessary response.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-77346608456632115632020-10-30T12:32:00.001-07:002021-06-10T06:10:31.437-07:00 Learning things naturally<p><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Some of the things I “understood” about the world when I was little:</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The Bible was written by God<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Heaven is reserved for perfect people, or people who die immediately after exiting the confessional<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Whenever you said Jesus, you had to dip your head. . . or you would go to Hell.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">There was an unusually high number of seagulls who had only one leg<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Bringing volumes of Japanese Beetles and Gypsy moths into the house for scientific research made Mom especially angry<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">One can never catch up with weeding a garden enriched by cow manure<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The best food in the world came from that garden<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Some families served green beans from a can<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Nana May and Papa Joe were real people; Nana Morrissey and Gamma were stern or unhappy, or both.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Having read “Odyssey of an Otter” is not in the same league as reading “The Odyssey”. (Sorry, Mrs. Panza, for the misunderstanding in 3<sup>rd</sup> grade.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Being quiet and compliant in a classroom did not guarantee that the teacher would let you clap the chalk erasers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">In the absence of a road map, dead reckoning is a great substitute, and it doesn’t necessarily result in someone’s death.*<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Lincoln Logs don’t stand a chance in a house where a dog lives.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">*I had a paralyzing fear of becoming lost when I was little; I still become overly anxious if I don’t know where I am. Whenever Mom and I were away from the house, if I sensed that she was lost I would begin to cry and beg her to tell me that she knew where she was going. On one occasion, I demanded proof; she simply said, “dead reckoning, honey,” which to me meant somehow someone was going to die. She appeared calm, and for the rest of the journey maintained an inscrutable smile. I was worried.<o:p></o:p></span></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style>Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-57404641100048667032020-05-24T14:34:00.002-07:002021-06-10T06:11:11.075-07:00Just stop!<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Do you ever notice how there are just some days you can’t help but be overly annoyed by everything? Behaviors and tendencies that on most days are tolerated reasonably well make your teeth clench and your face scrunch up unattractively and your eyes squint menacingly? You can convince yourself on those days that there really oughta be a law against so many of society’s practices that are both common and <i>accepted,</i>but that – notwithstanding – enough of us can agree should just be stopped. At the very least, public shaming should be encouraged. Herewith I spill my own list:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Pants with faux pockets</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. Don’t ever buy them; the sheer disingenuity of them should be enough of a reason. And insanely shallow pockets are nearly as bad – you will constantly worry that whatever you put in them will shimmy itself out. Maybe you’re supposed to treat them like faux pockets anyway, and not use them. . . so don’t put them on the pants in the first place. It seems an even greater betrayal when brands that have inspired your loyalty suddenly and without explanation or disclaimer produce the <i>same </i>style in all ways EXCEPT that now there are shallow pockets to replace the earlier reassuringly deep ones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Webpage layout shifting</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. You know how when you arrive on some webpage and your eyes start to feed your brain with the information, and then the information jumps, so that you have to reorient yourself. This is especially maddening when the shift happens at precisely the moment when you click on a link, but because the content has jumped, you are clicking on an entirely different link. It is not reassuring in the least to know the cause, which is that as asynchronous Ajax partials are loading, these little buggers are upsetting the initial render. Equally unhelpful to know is that you can fix this source of irritation via some clever CSS’ing. Don’t taunt me with words like “easy fix” if they’re in company with a word such as “CSS”. My feeble adaptive strategy is that I now leave any site on which I am thus ambushed twice in the first minute.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Personal fireworks late at night</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. When people set them off after 11:00pm, I automatically suppose the revelers to be well “into their cups”. If it’s close to my house there’s the added late summer stressor of, if one lands on the roof will my house go up in flames? I am further aggrieved when my dogs then commence barking way too excitedly. . . and proceed to invite me to take them out for potty. I wonder, too, when I hold my breath the next day as I drive over the duds with my lawn tractor, should I instead be stopping before each one of them, dismounting, and collecting them; i.e., will I blow myself up if I don’t?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Saying irregardless</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. Don’t. No matter that its nonstandard overuse has resulted in it becoming an acceptable variant of the word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Scratchy labels on clothing</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">. Typically these are made of course, sharp-edged “fabric” and are permanently fastened to the article of clothing with plastic thread (of all the stupidest innovations, and I say “innovation” scornfully.) The odds are better than even that you will cut into a sweater’s carotid if you try to surgically remove one. Ironically, seams can come completely undone, but a label “ain’t goin nowhere.” I may be imagining a kinder, friendlier time, but it seems to me that couture clothing companies once upon a time attached their labels with easily removable stitches. Snip, snip, and done. And long before there was mass production (or fashion houses), and people made their own clothing, this wasn’t an issue. The clothing, too, was meant to last, I mean really <i>last</i>. In fact, during colonial times when people wrote out their wills, along with their dwelling house, commonage interests, and iron tools; they cared deeply about the fate of their “wearing apparill”. Imagine seeing Caleb </span><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"><v:formulas><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"><v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:formulas><v:path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"><o:lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></o:lock></v:path></v:stroke></v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_8" o:spid="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 127.2pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 312.75pt; margin-top: 0.05pt; position: absolute; text-align: left; visibility: visible; width: 117.2pt; z-index: -251640832;" type="#_x0000_t75"><v:imagedata o:title="" src="file:////Users/joycemckenna/Library/Group%20Containers/UBF8T346G9.Office/TemporaryItems/msohtmlclip/clip_image001.jpg"><w:wrap type="tight"></w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Pike 3<sup>rd</sup>, sauntering around the Village attired in the late Walker Buswell’s great coat and best leather breeches. While it probably provoked a few tears of remembrance among some and a few raised eyebrows among others, and then again, maybe not; I doubt anyone was overly concerned about how to most expertly excise a brand label.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Shaken-up seltzer bottles. </span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">They look harmless enough, sitting silently at attention on the store shelf, blending in with their innocent neighbors. Your first thought, though, is: <i>I hope this isn’t one of “them”. </i>Appearances will tell you nothing, however; you won’t really know if it is one of “them” until it detonates in your kitchen. It doesn’t stop you from studying the bottle from all. . . well, not angles per se, but by rotating it as if one hopes to find some small portent of what is to come. If only we had a way to signal when a bottle has previously been dropped on the floor. Perhaps the bottle would change color, or the offender – following the honor system – could flip a switch right on the bottle that indicates that it has become one of “them”. My suggestion here is that we hand off the problem to an M.I.T. student. But aren’t Coke and ginger ale bottles the absolute worst when it comes to the deadly carbonation ambush?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">There’s a sense of futility inherent in an exercise such as this, for once you’ve begun a list of grievances, you quickly become aware that there will be no end. . . at least if it’s one of those days when everything grates on your nerves. Imagine if I had chosen to include other people’s annoying driving habits or grocery store tendencies or cell-phone usage. To be sure, I am not without my own annoying foibles; just ask Megan about my talking while chewing. . . or asking over and over while watching a movie, “what did he (or she) just say?”. Now that I think about it, the list of my irritating behaviors might be pretty long, too.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5tS_U5w9ZLw_2iPMYYSVnxRBCQWZh2i2HD-V5REyyzcPGWH9C7r2HlI0CRVwxVaLCgfcATZ6-1cnxajwJCP-ap4YKkPHqmFofdESrJ0sf7fG60Ic00zeQaKyXGBdQdjLrHt7z7dFExg/s1600/Walker+B+great+coat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="17th century attire, New England history, Massachusetts Bay, great coat, Pike, Buswell, breeches" border="0" data-original-height="920" data-original-width="848" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5tS_U5w9ZLw_2iPMYYSVnxRBCQWZh2i2HD-V5REyyzcPGWH9C7r2HlI0CRVwxVaLCgfcATZ6-1cnxajwJCP-ap4YKkPHqmFofdESrJ0sf7fG60Ic00zeQaKyXGBdQdjLrHt7z7dFExg/s320/Walker+B+great+coat.jpg" title="colonial america attire" width="294" /></a></div>
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Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-11579430211598260262020-04-21T09:57:00.002-07:002021-06-10T06:12:01.727-07:00Life in the Era of Coronavirus<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">It’s April 21, 2020.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">We in Massachusetts have been under a governor-mandated </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">“stay at home” advisory for almost one month.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">While I hadn’t been considering any moves to memorialize these surreal times, an episode on a podcast that I often listen to made me reflect and pivot.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The interviewee was a writing professor who, in the course of the interview, read on air an email correspondence that he had recently sent to his students.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The upshot of it was that as wont as we might be to desire to put as great a distance as possible between ourselves and this cataclysmic event laden with worry and blame fixing and uncomfortable changes in behavior, we may at some point want – or need – to give finite shape and substance to it all.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">In other words, we may arrive at a point in time when we wish to draw parallels or simply give adequate expression to a particular context.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">If I were to be asked to capture (in general terms) what changes this crisis has wrought, or what the outward and most visible signs are that we’ve been yanked out of our customary behaviors and thought processes, I’d put it this way: I see more people outside in my neighborhood, more families walking or cycling together and having conversations, more people running (either solo or in pairs), more dog-walking, more children playing in their own yards. Throughout the day I hear voices from all quarters of my neighborhood, voices on top of voices: laughter, measured tones, angry outbursts, crying from babies, barking – ranging from high pitched to deep-throated.) There are, as well, expanded and earnest efforts in social media to engage other media users; people want to understand each other better, they want to encourage participation, and they want to feel that despite the fear that they’re experiencing, they won’t be having to endure this crisis alone. Yet inasmuch as the outward signs <i>should </i>make manifest greater connectedness, we continue to wage a battle against feelings of loneliness and isolation that result from living under a “stay-at-home” mandate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">For better or for worse, I’m the first one to declare a partiality for solitude and alone time. My inner thoughts are my greatest companion (to the detriment of my social relationships). I was in conversation with my sister the other day when I admitted that with all this imposed social distancing, even I was beginning to fray at the edges, and I regularly limit my interactions with people. It’s somewhat of a tired joke that family members are surprised when I actually <i>do </i>answer my phone. I can tell, because there’s a split second of silence, followed by a stuttering and sometimes inarticulate conversation preamble. With such people-avoidance skills to my credit, I am thus qualified to speak with authority about “social distancing in the time of corona”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">My healthy way of coping and staying in control is to make lists. So, I will provide here my gratuitous list of recommendations, what I choose to call “How to Navigate a World Replete with the Deadly COVID-19” (because everything should be given a name):<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Avoid places and events that draw large numbers of people. (For me that’s been a snap, I do that naturally.) For others, stay away from Walmart – that’s a large group magnet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Before ever leaving the house, measure out six feet on the floor; the impression of what that distance looks like might stick better when you’re in a real-world context. Now go forth and always maintain a separation according to the following chart:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">P<span style="color: black;">opulation</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Min. distance to be maintained</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Adults: ages 18-20<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">6 feet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Adults: ages 21-39<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">At least one state or 100 miles, whichever is greater*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Adults: 40 +<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">6 feet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Children: ages 0-11<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">25 feet**<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Children: ages 12-15<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Should not be anywhere in sight or within hearing distance***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Children: ages 16-17<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">6 feet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">*This group has no regard for human life other than their own (as shown by most recent “Spring Break” gatherings in Florida and St. Patrick’s Day bar-hopping in Southie.) This recommendation is purely punitive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">**Have you ever witnessed the distance that a cough or sneeze can travel among this demographic?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">***Although not proven to be any more threatening as a transmitter of potentially deadly viral particles, the sheer contrariness of this population will put your teeth on edge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Wash hands after contact with any surface that has been touched by any other human ever. Moreover, don’t touch any part of your face, even when trying to excise a dog hair from the food you’ve been chewing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Make ample use of hand sanitizer. . . if you can find it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Wear a mask when away from the house, and not the kind that conceals your identity as you protest “stay-at-home” mandates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Use bleach as the preferred disinfectant. . . again, if you can find it. Vinegar won’t disable a virus, but you will probably lick any mold problem with it. And unless you just can’t stifle your curiosity about an ammonia-vinegar combination, don’t mix those two and think that it will somehow miraculously become an effective disinfectant; you’ll just end up with chlorine gas (which may trigger coughing and/or breathing difficulties). Hydrogen Peroxide and vinegar? Nope. Those two produce a toxic peracetic acid, irritating to the eyes, skin, and respiratory systems<sup>1</sup> And, if you’re successful in sourcing hydrogen peroxide, you should be overcome with guilt that you’re bringing harm to the “home-style colorists”, depleting product for an entire target market of women scrabbling for viable alternatives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Avoid heretofore serene, bucolic, undisturbed (by humans) areas, such as rail trails, nature preserves, and wildlife refuges. They have now become the destinations of every family on earth, whether they lived sedentary lives before or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Either take up cooking or subscribe to one or several cooking blogs. Maybe you can push yourself to start your own “plate up” blog and stage <i>singular </i>and <i>imaginative </i>and <i>evocative </i>photos on Instagram.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Take advantage of newly-offered delivery services from your favorite wine & spirits shop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Remember that you’re not alone. . . although you should be for the sake of everyone’s health, including your own. With equal parts irony and reassurance, it’s still good to know that we are in this together; otherwise, the frightfulness of this pandemic would paralyze us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">When all is said and done, we should marvel at our own ability to adapt. Regardless of the occasional snit or outburst, we harbor a genuine sense of hopefulness, we persist in believing that a new normal will establish itself, one that allows us to re-engage with family and friends in meaningful and enduring ways, and restore both our collective and individual sense of purpose. This beastly COVID-19 virus may bend us to its will for a while, but I refuse to allow that it will permanently cow us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">1</span></sup><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">This information to make me appear smart came from devonlive.com. I wouldn’t recall anything that required 11<sup>th</sup>grade chemistry mastery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-32279132140324649662020-04-08T06:35:00.000-07:002021-06-10T06:12:27.070-07:00Split Leash - a dubious solution<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Two dogs technically don’t comprise a collection, or – to be more precise – a pack, but when I head out the door with Mona and Bowie for their daily walk, it has that feel.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">There’s the initial search for harnesses; Bowie’s habit of plucking them from the hall basket and depositing them who-knows-where has me combing several rooms for the first few minutes; it’s fortunate that they’re fluorescent (the harnesses, not the dogs.)</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Next is the floor routine in order to attach a split leash.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Mona, older dog, always gets clipped first.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Despite her eagerness, she will sit patiently while I root around in her mass of fluff for the ring on her collar.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Bowie is meanwhile performing back flips, alternating them with valiant efforts to free Mona from her harness.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Bowie’s turn.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">He dutifully sits on command, gives me one-and-a-half seconds to find his collar ring and properly affix him to the second lead, and then charges to the door. . . usually still “unaffixed”.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">With nose pressed to the glass storm door, he allows himself to be tethered to his best pal.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">(Mona’s joy is tempered as she is reminded once again how times have changed; she muses, not too long ago Mommy loved just me, and took just me for long, uncomplicated walks, and if I wanted to stop and sniff something interesting, I could do that. . . in an uncomplicated way.)</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Before we leave the house and stutter-step our way down three short flights of steps (and not in a way that suggests that I’m striving to warm up my core), my pockets bulge with poop bags, treats, tissues, house key (with an attached sharp-eared kitty charm-slash-personal-protection-weapon that reassures me that I’m well-armed should another dog attack my pups or a psychopath ambush me), and cell-phone (to track my steps, as well as comply with my daughters’ demands that I be reachable.) Anyone with small children understands the complexity of “leaving the house”; whenever I leave the house with these two small dogs it invariably calls to mind those early days with Megan and Lindsey. Back then, just as excited about the possibilities that “leaving the house” implied, my girls – especially Lindsey – would bounce around and wriggle with delight, but they would never spontaneously (at the very moment when one’s foot was reaching tentatively for the next step), jerk on their leash and catapult you into the bushes next to the front steps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The split leash is in some ways ingenious, but also cruel. If you’re unfamiliar, it is a “V” attachment for the lower end of a single leash, converting it into a double leash. I had tried the two separate leashes and found that entanglement was a recurrent problem. I wearied of the constant exertions to creatively and gracefully extricate myself once encased. (There was no one better way to do it, whether I twirled in a 360-degree circle, or sumo-stepped my way over this leash first, only to find that I’d literally stepped into another trap.) One day on a section of rail trail in the South End of Newburyport, I ran into an older couple who were intrigued by the split leash. Is it easier to walk two dogs that way, they wanted to know. From my vantage point it’s easier, I sheepishly admitted. Rather than “guiding” me first in this direction, then immediately in that direction, Bowie (because that’s usually who’s doing the “guiding”) instead tugs Mona. In a way, they move together. . . symbiotically, one could say. In truth, Mona will be trotting along, in front, trying to enjoy our outdoor time, when a sudden jolt will launch her sideways; only residually will I feel it as it travels up the rest of the leash. To the older couple I simply explained that this was a pleasanter alternative to engaging in an interminable game of Chinese jump rope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I look deep into Mona’s eyes, sense the unformed question, and assure her, he won’t always be a puppy. Wishing for it, not wishing. And Mona remains skeptical.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-17010674360581222772019-11-18T13:21:00.002-08:002021-06-10T06:14:45.215-07:00Dear Ms. Yovanovitch<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Institute for the Study of Diplomacy<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Georgetown University</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">1316 36th St. NW</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Washington, DC. 20007</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Attention: Marie Yovanovitch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Dear Ms. Yovanovitch,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">I grew up in a rural area in southeast Massachusetts, always aware - and proud - that both my parents served in the U.S. Army with active assignments in Europe and the Pacific during WW2. Their commissioned officer status - my mom was a first lieutenant and my dad was a major - kept me in awe, a feeling that to this day can still sweep over me. . . and remind me of the honor owed to those who both represent our national and security interests, and who put themselves out there. . . literally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">It wasn't until I was a teenager that my curiosity about the details of my parents' service "tenure" took real hold. I asked questions, principally of my mother because she was more approachable and willing to reflect on that episode of her life. Often using her war album as a reference point, I would study a single picture or series of related ones, and probe until I could imagine an entire scene. My mother ultimately gifted me her album, and it remains one of my most treasured possessions, a fact made even more humbling when taking into account that I am one of seven children. Some years ago, my sister and I collaborated on a project to contextualize the album. Our objective was to synthesize our mom’s war experiences, impart the story (in pictorial fashion), so that <i>all </i>of us had a permanent record and understanding of Margaret Gildea’s ww2 service. We scanned every photograph and provided details and back-stories to flesh out her experiences in places like Mindanao, Philippines (where she developed an abiding distaste for mangos!), and the reception hospital in Namur, Belgium, and as part of the occupation/reconstruction efforts in Japan post-war. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Sitting one day on my mother’s living room sofa in the home she shared with her sister on Cape Cod, I once again was perusing her war album, when a loose photo slid into my lap. I may have seen it before, but never paid close attention to it; after all, it didn’t fit with the time sequence. It featured two brothers, one who appeared to be about eight years old, the other maybe about five or six. They were, in fact, twins. Her first comment was, “Look at those shorts – so French!” Then the story’s origins spilled out. My mother was a dietitian, so one of her assigned roles in the final days leading up to VE Day was to plan and organize meals for thousands upon thousands of severely under- and mal-nourished POW’s, who had been recently released from the Nazi camps. One morning a Belgian woman arrived at the gates, holding her two small babies in her arms, and pleading – in French – for help. Her distress readily made an impression on the guards, but they didn’t understand French; they sent her away. She returned very shortly and again appealed to the guards. My mother was immediately summoned, as she was fluent in French. She succeeded (much against strict military protocol) in getting a doctor to examine the baby, who was extremely ill with some type of infectious disease. As the baby was close to death, the doctor administered penicillin, which I’m sure you know was in short supply by this point in the war in Europe. The baby survived, and photos of my mom holding a then happy baby serve as evidence. So, what was this outlier photo, taken at a later date (perhaps in the early 1950’s) , doing in her album? My mom explained that the Belgian mother communicated with her after the war; in one of her letters, she had included a photo of the twins, one boy much smaller and less robust than the other; in fact, he looked like a much younger brother. Flawinne, nicknamed “Coco,” had survived his medical ordeal. As you can imagine, the Belgian mother was deeply suffused with gratitude that one Allied soldier had opened her heart to another woman’s desperation and despair, and was willing to set aside protocol and rules. It was a curious departure, for my mom always and strenuously maintained that she was a compliant follower of rules! I can’t help but imagine that there is a Belgique man out there, in his mid-70’s, a slight man (perhaps accustomed to wearing tight, high-waisted shorts), who answers to the name Flawinne. . . or Coco!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">As much as my parents viewed their wartime service as one of life’s distractions, nothing they could say – or not say – could undo the evident value that they placed on patriotism and service to one’s country, and the lifelong sense of caution that arises when authoritarianism threatens our very security.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">I don’t wish to suggest that their experiences mirror your own. One could say, different time, different place, different mitigating circumstances, different <i>context. </i>Yet, when I consider your testimony of last week, it is not lost on me that you appreciate – more keenly than the average citizen, and evidently much more keenly than several of your questioners – the fragility of democracy. You strike me as an extraordinarily honest foreign service careerist; that anyone would feel so emboldened as to characterize you as “bad news”, and remove you without cause must shake your faith. I’m not expecting that you would feel it necessary to defend against such an odious and baseless accusation; you’re way better than that. It troubles me greatly, however, that there appear to be no sensible measures that can effectively put a stop to this alarming trend. I have scant confidence that this will resolve satisfactorily because I hear the confounding rationalizations and defenses of politicians who are most concerned with holding onto their seats. We have a dangerous president in Donald Trump; his every action makes me want to kick and throw things. How do you stay positive? How do you, after being knocked down, pick yourself up and march forward with renewed conviction? You must surely have a personal mantra that serves you in moments like these!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">I am compelled to say how sorry I am that you’ve had to endure this nonsense, but I also sense how trite that must seem. Please don’t give up the fight; we who have been following events closely believe in you and the righteous path you’re following.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">I would be more than thrilled to hear back from you! For that reason, I include a S.A.S.E. for your convenience. (I am an inveterate writer of letters. In fact, my first “serious” letter, at the age of seven, was to J.F.K.’s widow in December of 1963.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">With highest regard,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">Joyce McKenna<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">November 18, 2019<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 10pt;">P.S. I retired from teaching in 2016, after teaching Spanish in public high schools for 27 years. I now volunteer at a cat shelter, and serve as the secretary for our town’s Historical Commission. I stop short of offering to volunteer to work with you, much as I hold you in high esteem, because I do love living near the ocean in my quiet corner of the country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6594866799822479848.post-7106742842374974292019-10-21T16:34:00.001-07:002021-06-10T06:15:01.880-07:00I’ll get to it. . . or will I?<div class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Most days my list of home maintenance and household tasks remains static.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Already being rather lengthy, it’s discouraging to even think of adding to it.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I just wish I were capable of crossing off more assignments than I find myself able to do these days.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Today I decided to take action.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Motivational wisdom maintains that you’re more apt to achieve your goals if you have a manageable daily list.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I like making lists.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I have lists on scraps of paper that are tucked everywhere in this house:</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">books to read, potential names of places to volunteer, inspirational quotes, people I want to write to or send things to, day trip ideas, and so on.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">This morning I made a serious list, and it looked like this at 9:30am:</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Wash table on patio<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Springing into action, I first switched into appropriate roll-up-your-sleeve wear, and headed to the back door. Pleased to see that the sun was shining, I then noted that the two French doors really needed a good cleaning. I thus veered off toward the pantry to gather window spray, paper towels and the squeegee. Hmm, I was sure I had left the squeegee in there. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the broom closet, either, although the smell of stink bugs in there reminded me of the unwise move earlier in the week of vacuuming up all those primitive-looking, creepy bugs that somehow ultimately find their way into my baskets of clean clothes and into my bureau.* The clutter within, in combination with the stink bug odor, caused me an involuntary shudder, so I closed the door. (Note: add “DIY closet project” to list.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">In short order, I found myself in my car with the objective of buying a replacement for an item that unquestionably was in my house but eluded discovery because someone (else) must have moved it. I headed south on Route 1 to pick up another squeegee at the hardware store, where the broad array of choices was staggering, challenging me to be more contemplative in my choice; I say challenging, but a squeegee is a squeegee, after all. I then dashed over to nearby Tendercrop Farm to buy eggs and milk. I’m nothing if not efficient in time management. In Tendercrop’s market I ran into Tiffany, and we caught up. As I then hastened toward the counter my eye caught an intriguing machine, topped by a large container of peanuts. Turns out you can make your own peanut butter at Tendercrop – I <i>love </i>peanut butter! But I’m efficient in time management, y’see, so I stored that new piece of information and walked away. I rushed, only to cool my heels in the line for the register, which is where I ran into Meghan from Triton, and we caught up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">It occurs to me that standing in line is really a blessing. I know it doesn’t seem that way for most of us; just the thought of waiting in line causes most of us to become anxious, all that time wasted. We just don’t view “The Line” for all it offers us. On occasion we find ourselves to be either directly in front of or behind someone whom we haven’t seen in ages. (Funny how the moment tends to force our facial muscles into some distorted version of a smile, and causes us to engage in awkward banter, maybe because we realize that we’ve been negligent in tending friendships, but more likely because in those moments we only ever are dressed in the worst of our closet’s dregs, and with our hair looking very much like the before picture). Confession: I regularly see people I know in <i>other</i> lines, and do my best to be invisible; I’m a horrible human being. Standing in line is like, but not too like, riding the subway; you have been presented with the opportunity to strike up a conversation with (most likely) a perfect stranger, and know that it will quickly end, and you will (most likely) never see this person again. You can be whoever you want, and say whatever you want. (In that way, it’s not <i>too</i> like meeting someone you know in a grocery or department store, but these days it’s even easier to lower the risk by ordering online and doing a curb-side pickup). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I always feel - at the grocery store or market, that is, - that you should not waste the moment by talking about how frustrating it is to wait in line, and, excuse me, but why is that person <i>just now</i> beginning to dig into the deepest recesses of her satchel for her checkbook? It is in moments like this where it’s okay to talk about the enduring appeal of PEZ candy dispensers, (they didn’t always come packaged in such a fun, child-centered way, you know; also, they were originally mint-flavored and came in an Altoids-type tin), and what a shame – and how bewildering – that NECCO, the other maker of candy of questionable value, abruptly sold the business; who really even <i>likes </i>those clove-flavored ones? Oh, you do – Imagine that! (You have to hand it to NECCO; they stuck to their formula, and never changed in over 150 years.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">An hour and a half after having critically assessed the state of the glass in my French doors, I finally held all the necessary supplies to clean them. I got down to work, and, equipped with the proper tools, quick work it was. The panes looked wonderful, or I should say that the tree line beyond looked wonderful. So that is why I proceeded to the dining room, hoping to excite my brain’s pleasure center once more. I was reminded, in so doing, that on one of the windows the pulley and sash cord had long parted ways. (Note: add “Repair window sash” to list.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I did, <i>finally, </i>get to one of the items on my list – the ornamental grasses in the front garden. This time the right tool presented itself without taunting me into a game of hide-and-seek. It was probably the most ambitious task on the list, but I was determined to get it off the list, if only for the reason that I’d like to ease the job of backing my car out of the driveway without having to inch by the overgrown grasses. Now I barely have to tap my brakes, and I’m on my way up the street. See, there’s my natural sense of efficiency on evidence again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">So, at the end of the day my list now reads (for use another day):<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Move deck furniture down to patio under deck<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">7)<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> <strike> </strike></span></span><!--[endif]--><s><span style="font-family: "helvetica";">Cut down ornamental grasses – front garden<o:p></o:p></span></s></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">*Stink bugs, an invasive species from East Asia, are of particular concern to growers of corn and soybean. It worries me that scientists have considered introducing another species from China as a natural predator; the wasp in question has no known predators. Really? Really?!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">**Admit it; you, too, add things to your list after the fact, just so that you can cross them off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica";">I think I need more motivational wisdom. It should pull in some ideas about avoiding distractions, how to become organized <i>and stay that way, </i>perhaps some words on prioritizing, and, dear God, some strategies on time management.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scosche of Classhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13770348814482742608noreply@blogger.com0