I’m going to a protest today. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing that down, right? Maybe I shouldn’t be advertising my opposition to this regime. But a protest is a public thing, so here I am. If they want to come get me, they can.
What should I write on my cardboard sign, I’m wondering? Deport Elon? Trump is a Chump? Impeach 47? Any of those will work. I’m not going to waste time trying to be clever. I’m going with Impeach 47 on one side, and Deport Elon on the other. The simpler, the better.
The weather is uncertain today. It will be warmer than usual, which is great from my perspective; and it might rain. Or it might not. I have to figure out what to wear now, which should not be a problem. A person with as many clothes as I have should not have any trouble assembling an outfit for pretty much any occasion, from work to social gatherings to fighting fascism.
*****
Well that was a blast. I arrived at the protest about 10 minutes late. I’d expected to join a scrappy little group of 25 or maybe 50 at most. But there were at least 300 people on our side of Georgia Avenue and the crowd overflowed to the other side of the street. The protestors were mostly older and mostly white, but we had some young people, too, including some children. I had a delightful conversation with a 9-year-old girl who proudly showed me the colorful signs she’d made for herself and her mother.
A few of the older people out on the street yesterday were really old. Walker and wheelchair and cane old. Their various infirmities didn’t stop them from joining the crowds and holding up their signs, and they seemed absolutely delighted to be out. A lady in a wheelchair held up a beautifully hand-lettered sign that read “Hail to the Chief,” with the H and the C crossed out and replaced with a J and a T. Another older woman, tiny and wiry and energetic - the kind of lady who will be mall-walking circles around the rest of us when she’s 100 - had hand-painted signs for herself and her husband. Her sign was an angry polar bear with the caption “Welcome to Greenland - Come and Get Us.” I don’t remember what her husband’s sign looked like, but both were works of art, and the woman’s husband told everyone who would listen that his wife is an artist and that she made their signs. They were both adorable. As was a lady with a walker, flanked by her daughters, who said “Will we be on Rachel Maddow? We have to watch on Monday!”
*****
The weather was really ideal - just slightly cool with a tiny bit of mist. The sun peeked out every so often but it was mostly overcast. A few of the organizers walked a patrol, making sure that people had water if they needed it, and reminding everyone to stay on the sidewalk on very busy Georgia Avenue. Traffic was heavy, as it always is on Georgia Avenue, and at least 80 percent of drivers honked and waved in support. A few people seemed oblivious, while others stared studiously ahead without looking to the right, which was really funny when the light changed and those people were stuck at the red light trying to pretend that nothing was happening, nothing at all. One person flipped us off as he sped by, and the crowd laughed and cheered. Altogether a perfect afternoon, and I plan to do it again at the soonest opportunity. Meanwhile, I’ll await my direct deposit from Mr. Soros. The economy is in freefall right now, and every penny counts. And of course, I'll watch Rachel tomorrow. Maybe we'll all be on TV.
Sunday, April 6, 2025
Wednesday, April 2, 2025
Childhood nostalgia
I went back to see my mom on Friday and Saturday last week. As I drove through the Main Line on Saturday morning on my way from my sister's house to the rehab facility, which is just down the street from Haverford College, I thought about similar beautiful Saturday mornings throughout my children’s school years. During those years, at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, I’d have been at a swim meet or a track meet or a baseball game or on my way to one of those things. I loved that time, but I don’t miss it as much as I did the first year after my youngest graduated. And of course we still have college swimming, which is the greatest.
But I still miss it a little bit. I drove past the Haverford YMCA, wondering if they have a swim team, and if there was a meet going on. I pulled up to the Wawa to pick up my mom’s coffee and I listened in on the coffee station conversations - parents had just dropped kids off at lacrosse and baseball practices, or were on their way to games and picking up coffee and snacks for the morning. Some of them were harried younger parents, still figuring out how to manage spring sports along with everything else. The senior parents, the ones whose kids are in their last year or two of high school, seemed happy and a little smug. I remember that feeling during my younger son’s senior year and his last summer of summer swimming - I was happy and a little smug and also a little sad that it was all ending. I thought about saying something, just joining the conversation for a few minutes, but I decided not to. I paid for our coffees and was on my way.
*****
My mom was up and about when I arrived; or as close to as up and about as she can be right now. She had already had breakfast and was dressed for the day, and she seemed ready to do something. Her spirits were high, which was nice to see. I told her that I’d seen a “Deport Elon Musk” sign, with an Uncle Sam illustration, on the front lawn of a very nice Main Line house. “Good for them,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get one too. As far as I’m concerned, all the other immigrants can stay, but they need to send that Elon back to South Africa.” Damn right, Mom.
The nurse said that my mom was well enough to go out, so we went out - lunch at a nice little neighborhood spot called Angelo’s Cafe, and book shopping at Barnes and Noble. My mom had crepes for lunch because why shouldn’t she, and she bought a gardening magazine and two illustrated Philadelphia history books. She sat and read her books while I shopped a bit to spend a gift card that had been burning a hole in my pocket. The walk back to the car wore her out a bit, and we headed back to the Quadrangle. She was tired enough that she needed the wheelchair for the trip back to her room, but she had a good time. We sat looking at our new books together, and my mom showed me photos of the places that she remembered from her Philadelphia childhood and mine.
But I still miss it a little bit. I drove past the Haverford YMCA, wondering if they have a swim team, and if there was a meet going on. I pulled up to the Wawa to pick up my mom’s coffee and I listened in on the coffee station conversations - parents had just dropped kids off at lacrosse and baseball practices, or were on their way to games and picking up coffee and snacks for the morning. Some of them were harried younger parents, still figuring out how to manage spring sports along with everything else. The senior parents, the ones whose kids are in their last year or two of high school, seemed happy and a little smug. I remember that feeling during my younger son’s senior year and his last summer of summer swimming - I was happy and a little smug and also a little sad that it was all ending. I thought about saying something, just joining the conversation for a few minutes, but I decided not to. I paid for our coffees and was on my way.
*****
My mom was up and about when I arrived; or as close to as up and about as she can be right now. She had already had breakfast and was dressed for the day, and she seemed ready to do something. Her spirits were high, which was nice to see. I told her that I’d seen a “Deport Elon Musk” sign, with an Uncle Sam illustration, on the front lawn of a very nice Main Line house. “Good for them,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get one too. As far as I’m concerned, all the other immigrants can stay, but they need to send that Elon back to South Africa.” Damn right, Mom.
The nurse said that my mom was well enough to go out, so we went out - lunch at a nice little neighborhood spot called Angelo’s Cafe, and book shopping at Barnes and Noble. My mom had crepes for lunch because why shouldn’t she, and she bought a gardening magazine and two illustrated Philadelphia history books. She sat and read her books while I shopped a bit to spend a gift card that had been burning a hole in my pocket. The walk back to the car wore her out a bit, and we headed back to the Quadrangle. She was tired enough that she needed the wheelchair for the trip back to her room, but she had a good time. We sat looking at our new books together, and my mom showed me photos of the places that she remembered from her Philadelphia childhood and mine.
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