911

It’s September 11. I'm working from home today, and even though it’s a really bad idea, I have news on in the background. 

Since it’s the 9/11 anniversary, the networks (alternating between MSNBC and CNN) covered the memorials at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, and Shanksville, PA. But the murder of Charlie Kirk is dominating every broadcast. 

It feels like we crossed (yet another) Rubicon yesterday. I don’t know why. Certainly, political violence is nothing new; and people die at the hands of gun-toting maniacs all the time. And as of this writing, I can’t even be sure if it was political violence. The shooter is still at large. Charlie Kirk was an outspoken MAGA activist, but he wasn’t a politician or an elected official. I think it’s likely - probable - that Mr. Kirk was targeted for his political beliefs, but I don’t know this for sure. No one other than the killer knows for sure, though the usual people are out here blaming “violent rhetoric on the left” as if there’s no such thing as violent rhetoric on the right and as if people don’t die by gunfire every day, for all kinds of reasons but mostly for no reason at all. 

Charlie Kirk’s beliefs were abhorrent to me, but murder is always evil, 100 percent of the time, no exception. Gun violence is always bad, 100 percent of the time. Charlie Kirk did not deserve to be murdered. I’m sorry for his wife and his young children and his parents and everyone else who loved him. I’m even more sad and sorry for my country. 

C-Suite

“Aiming for the C-suite, Claire?” This was the opening gambit of a LinkedIn DM from someone who - OBVIOUSLY - does not know me at all, even though he went right for the first name without so much as a hello. Anyway, no, I’m not aiming for the C-suite or any other suite that involves me directing anyone’s work other than my own. I’ve been a manager, and I’m not doing it again. Bro, absolutely not. 

*****

I didn’t respond, obviously. The person messaging me was recruiting students for an MBA program. I can think of a few things that I want to do less than return to school - for an MBA no less! - but only a few. And a five-minute review of my LinkedIn profile would have made this perfectly clear. He’s casting a very wide net, I guess, which is perfectly fair, but he needn’t expect a response from me. I’m a busy woman. If I engage in online correspondence with every joker who wants to recruit me for something, then I’ll never have time to sit around and write about absolutely gosh-darn nothing. 

*****

Well, not nothing. For example, yesterday (yesterday being Saturday making today Sunday) we set up a table at our annual community yard sale in the pool parking lot. I don’t recall ever having done this, even though we’ve lived here for just over 20 years, but my husband said that we did do it one other time, and I have no reason to doubt him. The yard sale was more fun than I expected. I set up a bin marked with a “Free Stuff” sign. I also had a little collection of those ceramic figurines that come free in boxes of Red Rose tea, and I invited little kids to pick one each. The kids were delighted to dig through the free stuff bin for treasures, and they were even more delighted to pick out a ceramic figurine. Three of the figurines were puppies - those were the first three to go. But there were also bears, Christmas trees, a bunny, a mermaid, and a sand castle. All of them have new homes now. I imagine that they’re displayed on children’s shelves or secreted away in treasure boxes. 

Oh, and we sold some stuff too - personal items and clothes, household items, books, a few gadgets, this and that. Some people bargained for lower prices - perfectly fair at a yard sale - but a surprising number of people just handed over the asking price for whatever they were buying. At the end, we gave some things away - including two flower prints to a fellow yard sale merchant who’d had a very slow morning, and who said that getting those prints made the whole morning worthwhile; and a couple of cute canvas tote bags and zipper pouches to my teenage girl neighbors, who were very pleased to have them. Then I tossed everything that remained in the free bin into the dumpster. I just can’t tell you how cathartic it is to launch things into a dumpster, one by one - especially when it’s a big dumpster, and you have to really fling stuff to get it high up enough to clear the top. That might have been the most fun I’ll have all week. Meanwhile, we had a very pleasant morning with neighbors, we cleared out some clutter, and we came home $128 richer. A resounding success. 

*****

We went to dinner on Saturday night with my husband’s mother and his sister and her family. It was a birthday celebration for my husband (September 4) and me (September 9). My niece made me a birthday picture - a white kitten in an ice cream cone with sprinkles. I love it so much that I put it in a frame. And then my sister-in-law and I each had exactly one more margarita than we should have. By the end of the evening, I was legitimately overserved, which is something I haven’t been for a very long time, and I don’t plan to be again anytime soon. 

I really should have suffered more on Sunday morning than I actually did. The FO was not nearly as bad as the FA warranted. Still, I slept a little later than I wanted to, and then woke up panicking about everything I needed to do. And then I just got up and did everything - no dilly-dallying, no shilly-shallying, no wasted time. By noon, I had blazed through a long list of chores, including prepping dinner and hanging up my now-framed ice cream kitten. 

What is better than getting everything done and then looking back with satisfaction remembering that feeling of overwhelm, knowing that it’s in the past? What is better than turning your to-do list into a done list? Nothing, that’s what. Gosh-darn nothing. Between the successful yard sale on Saturday and the burst of efficiency on Sunday morning, I felt like an absolute boss. You know what? I probably DO belong in the C-suite. 

Some days you wake...

 “Some days you wake and immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong, it's just the suspicion that forces are aligning quietly and there will be trouble.”

Jenny Holzer

*****

Glenstone is a museum smack dab in the middle of the DC suburbs; Potomac, to be exact. Potomac, if you’re not familiar with the DMV, is a very wealthy suburban community  - one of the wealthiest in the United States, in fact. Potomac is filled with magnificent houses set on beautifully landscaped multi-acre lots. Winding roads wend their way past golf courses and private swim clubs and private schools. Everything is nicer in Potomac - even the supermarkets and hardware stores and pharmacies are fancy and exclusive-looking. 

Before it became a museum, Glenstone was just one of Potomac’s many expansive private estates. And it still is - the owners, apparently, still live on the property. About 20 years ago, they turned acres of their land into a museum and nature preserve and outdoor sculpture gallery. They built galleries to display their enormous collection of modern and contemporary art, and they created trails and paths through the nature preserve. They added a few parking lots and a visitors’ center and bookstore, and indoor and outdoor cafes. Then they opened the whole thing to the public, absolutely free - free admission, free parking, free umbrellas to borrow for rainy days, free wheelchairs to borrow, free golf cart rides to and from the visitors’ center for those in need - the cafes and the bookstore are the only places that cost anything. I’m not a fan of billionaires and as a rule, I think they shouldn’t exist (as billionaires, that is - no objection to their existence as humans) but if you’re going to be a billionaire art collector, this is the way to do it. 

*****

We pulled into the parking lot at Glenstone just a few minutes ahead of our ticketed arrival time at 11 AM. Even the parking lot is pretty - shady and surrounded by trees, with interesting rocks as parking spot markers. From the parking lot, you walk to the Arrivals Hall, where a friendly staff person asks if you’ve been before. If not, they offer a helpful orientation and hand you a map and guide, and then you’re free to explore. 

From the Arrivals Hall, you walk a beautiful path through meadow-like landscaping. I’m not very good at recognizing plants and flowers, but there’s definitely a huge patch of heather. It feels like you’re walking through a heath or a moor in a 19th century English novel.  As you walk the path, you’ll see a big sycamore tree on your right, marked on the map as The Sycamore Tree. It’s an impressive tree, so maybe it merits that capitalized title. On the left, hills rise, and at the top of one hill, you can see Jeff Koons’ Split-Rocker, a giant sculpture of a creature’s head, which is covered with live vegetation that changes with the seasons. Split-Rocker is colorful in the summer, and green in the spring. Apparently, Glenstone has a guy whose main job is to oversee the replanting and irrigation necessary to keep Split-Rocker blooming in the spring and summer. He’s doing a good job. 

Glenstone has paths and trails. The paths are gentle, flat, winding little paved roads through the meadows. Paths take you to the Pavilions, where the temporary exhibits are displayed; and the Gallery, the more permanent collection; as well as the Cafe (indoors) and Patio (outdoor coffee shop). I visited with a friend who has health issues that make climbing and difficult walking all but impossible, so we kept to the paths. Next time, I’ll climb a few of the trails, including the one that takes you to the base of Split-Rocker, which is huge even from a distance.

*****

The Pavilions are a group of low, stark, gray buildings in the middle of the meadow. Well, it looks like a group of buildings from the outside but they’re all interconnected inside. I didn’t know most of the artists whose work is currently on view, except for Jenny Holzer (quoted above) and On Kawara and Cy Twombly. There’s a pretty large collection of Jenny Holzer’s word art and her huge enlargements of formerly classified documents about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, obtained via a FOIA request; and her electronic art. There are five Cy Twombly sculptures assembled from very old white-painted found objects. I’d have liked to see some of his paintings, too, but the sculptures were very cool. I can’t explain why. 

I was happy to discover some new-to-me artists, too; especially Jaune Quick-to-See Smith and Brice Marden and Robert Gober, whose single piece was a full-room installation with running sinks and walls covered with hand-painted forests with tiny prison-like windows at the top and stacks of newspapers here and there on the floor. It was strangely peaceful in that room. 

*****

When you’re at Glenstone, surrounded by wildflowers and verdant meadows and trees, it’s possible to forget where you really are - but not for long. Past the Sycamore Tree and the Pavilions, you can see the roofs of neighboring Potomac mansions. I’m sure that in the winter, even more of Potomac is visible from Glenstone’s grounds. Still, it’s a calm and beautiful place that feels set aside from the world. I plan to go back soon. I want to get a little closer to that giant flowering head. 

Nothing but blue skies

Our old lady is back. After a few months in rehab and assisted living, she’s back at home like she never left. I talked to her last night, and I’m grocery shopping for her today. 

I might have mentioned before that our old lady (she’s not just mine how; our whole family owns her) is a hoarder, and when she went to assisted living, she authorized her attorney to hire a cleaning service to clean out her house and a contractor to do some repairs. She’s happy with the repairs, but not happy with the clean-up, because, as she keeps telling me, “All my stuff is gone!” I think that this was the point, and I’m not sure what she expected when she hired the cleaning service. Maybe she thought they were going to pick up each old newspaper and magazine and knickknack and dust it off and then arrange all of the clutter so that it looked pretty. Anyway, I’m staying out of that mess. My job involves two things: offer a listening ear (this is the hard part) and deliver food and supplies. I will resist any and all attempts to expand my portfolio. 

*****

It was nice while it lasted, “it” being the few months break from the weekly shopping and grocery delivery service. I’d honestly forgotten how much of a pain it was. She buys too much stuff; rather, she makes me buy too much stuff. Still, I’m glad she’s OK. She sounds like her old self on the phone, like she’s regained her strength. I’ll have to regain mine so that I’m equal to the gallons of bleach and warehouse orders of canned goods. I think she’s a doomsday prepper. I think she’s stocking up the bunker. 

*****

I did her shopping last night, which was Friday, making today Saturday. It’s also Labor Day weekend, my very least favorite national holiday. We’re enjoying an unprecedented stretch of beautiful weather here in the DMV - just endless sunshine and blue skies. Our crape myrtle is almost finished blooming, and the leaves on the trees are beginning to turn. I haven’t been swimming for five days now  - overnight temperatures have been dropping into the 50s, and it’s just been too cold. So today, I spent the morning and early afternoon at the Glenstone Museum, a place I’ll be writing about in more detail. I don’t have much use for billionaires, but I’ll make an exception for Mr. and Mrs. Rales. That is how to be a billionaire.

*****

Another beautiful day. I don’t trust it. This now 7-day stretch of clear, spotless, sunshiny blue skies is just as bizarre as the long stretches of bad weather this spring and early summer. Something is up. The hammer is going to fall, I’m telling you. 

Oh, don’t listen to me. What do I know? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing. I always get weird around Labor Day. Summer’s about to end and I’m never ready for summer to end. 

It’s Sunday now, and while I normally love the Sunday of a three-day weekend, I make an exception for LDW, which I hate. Hate is a strong word, but it’s the correct one. 

But I don’t hate everything about this weekend. I’m sitting on my patio at 10 in the morning, listening to birds and cicadas as a lovely breeze dries my hair. Someone is using some kind of power tool. I don’t know what it is - it’s not a lawnmower, It could be a chainsaw or maybe a leaf blower. I don’t mind it, really, but the noise is coming from at least a block away. Maybe I’d mind if it was next door. 

Well, that’s all I have for today. My head is in a really weird place. Time to move. 

*****

Do you know that feeling of getting out of a swimming pool and feeling cooled all over and how your body retains that coolness for hours afterward and you feel just completely clean and refreshed? I wanted that feeling yesterday, but I didn’t think I could stand the cold water. It turns out that I could and I did, but only for a few minutes. I went in up to my shoulders and I paddled around for a few minutes - I didn’t even put my head all the way in - and it was enough. The swimming part wasn’t the best, because I really like to swim - but the after-swimming part was perfect. 

I’m trying to turn that into a metaphor for something. But poetry is not my lane, so I’ll stick with prose. A few minutes in the water is better than no minutes in the water. Sometimes, good enough is good enough. 

It’s Labor Day, the only national holiday for which I have no use whatsoever. I’ll get my last few minutes in the pool a little later on, but now it’s time to get dressed and join the protesters on Georgia Avenue. Sticking it to the man will make me feel better. The weather, at least, is perfect. 

Time and place

I’m sitting on my patio right now, 9:45 on a 10/10 Saturday morning. Really, it is just beautiful out here - bright sunshine, flawless clear blue sky, temperatures in the high 60s with a lovely breeze rustling the leaves on the trees, with cicadas chirping and birdsong and a dog barking here and there the only other noise. 

My younger son and I are the only people home right now, but that will change in a few hours. He’s still sleeping, because this is one of his last few sleep-in mornings for some time. We’re taking him back to school today, and class and swim practice will start on Monday. Summer always passes by so fast. It already feels like September out here. 

The third year of taking your youngest child to college is definitely much easier than the first. I remember the dread-filled days leading up to move-in day in 2023, and it’s not nearly so bad now. He takes his car to school now and comes home every so often; and of course, swim season starts soon, and I love college swim season the way some people love NFL football. The boys team is swimming against Duke and Boston College in Durham next month, and I booked our room weeks ago. Part of me can’t wait. The other part would like to turn the clock back a few months. Well, that second part wants to turn the clock back a full year because I’d like to relive an optimistic summer untainted by ICE raids and military patrols on the streets of DC. But you know what I mean. 

*****

It’s Sunday now, just about 24 hours later and I am once again out on my patio writing about pretty much nothing. The weather is different today - soft and overcast and almost cool. The breeze is still rustling, though, and I’m still hearing cicadas (much more muted) and birdsong. 

Our son moved in yesterday. His quad suite is quite similar to the suite he had last year, and he’s sharing it with the same crew, one of whom has been his roommate since freshman year. I was happy to see them. We helped with move-in and unpacking and arranging the room, and then we took the boys out for dinner and to the neighborhood Safeway so that they could stock up on supplies and snacks. We were exhausted when we arrived home at 10. And now it’s kind of sad to walk past his neat and empty room at home. I’ll get used to it because I always do and because I have to - after all, at some point, he’s going to leave home for good - but I do like having all my people at home under my roof. 

*****

I’ve been reading a lot lately, so my next post - I promise - will be less about my daily life amid the changing seasons and more about books. Preview: The Sum of Us (Heather McGhee), Iris in Winter (Elizabeth Caddell), The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde), and The Adventures of Miss Barbara Pym (Paula Byrne). Four weeks, three centuries, two countries - proving that I’m capable of leaving the house and getting out of my own head for five minutes, even if only in a book. 

Cold water flat

It’s Sunday morning, our first morning home after vacation. It’s nice to be home. It’s nice to be in my own surroundings. We don’t have any hot water but that’s a minor and temporary inconvenience that will be remedied soon. And the people who say that cold showers are refreshing are pretty much correct, but I’m not sure I’d be so easygoing about this if the water heater was broken during a January cold spell rather than an August heat wave. Timing is everything. 

*****

We got home at 2:30 on Saturday. We unpacked immediately, and I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning an already pretty-clean house, doing laundry, swimming, and catching up on work. I had planned to remain completely offline until Tuesday but I’m glad I spent a few hours working. Now I know what I have to do next week, and knowing what I have to do is half the proverbial battle. 

And speaking of knowing what I have to do, the larder is bare, so it’s time to restock. I’m off to the grocery store. Details at 11. 

******

I yield to no one in my appreciation for a hot shower, but a cold shower on a hot day can be quite lovely too. It’s Monday now, and we expect to have the water heater repaired in the next day or so, but for now, we’re just fine. Washing in cold water is a good reminder that we’re lucky to be able to wash any time we want, even in cold water. Not everyone is so lucky. 

And if you are able to do it, then I can’t recommend strongly enough taking an extra day at the end of vacation. We went to a neighborhood party yesterday, and it was that much more fun knowing that I didn’t have to go to work the next morning. My son goes back to school on Saturday so we’ll maybe do some supply shopping, and then I’ll run a few errands and go swimming or walking (it’s quite cool today) and then make dinner at home for the first time since August 7 or so. I’m sitting outside, and the yard and patio are a mess after an evening thunderstorm, so I’ll start by cleaning up out here a bit.  

*****

As always, vacation has to end; and as (almost) always, I don’t mind that much. Work was hectic, of course, but I’m catching up. And cold showers notwithstanding, I’m still in the “it’s nice to be home” mindset. What’s not great is that I am one of the few people still hanging on to summer. My husband is hosting not one but two fantasy football draft parties in the next two weeks. The house, which was ship-shape on Sunday, is now a staging ground for my son’s college move-in on Saturday. And with the second cloudy, cool day in a row, the fall fans are out there with their transitional sweaters and their Starbucks cups. I don’t ask for much. Just please let summer be summer until Labor Day - which is, of course, on gosh-darn September 1 this year because 2025 can’t stop being an asshole for even five minutes. 

*****

Loath as I am to admit it (and I am very much loath to admit it), there are a few things about the transition from summer to fall that I do not quite hate. Take Tuesday night, for example. I finished work at 5:15 and did some quick dinner prep, and then I went to the pool. Because I am a dedicated pool denizen - a pool rat, as we say here in the neighborhood - I know what many people do not know, which is that in a big pool like ours, the water takes a few days to cool, even when the weather changes. This means that on Monday, a cool and cloudy day in marked contrast to the weekend’s intense heat, the water was still very warm. It remained cool through the night on Monday and Tuesday also dawned cool and pearly gray, with a little bit of rain here and there. People who are not in the know would assume that it would now be officially too cold to swim, but those people would be wrong. 

The air was cool enough that I could have comfortably worn long sleeves - maybe even a light sweater. Instead, I put on my suit and wrapped up in a towel and went swimming. There were, of course, a bunch of kids in the pool because they are also pool rats who know (and during the last week before school starts those kids would be swimming even if they had to break up ice on the surface) and one other lap swimmer. The water had cooled a bit more since Monday but it was still lovely - just chilly enough to shock the system a little bit on entry, and then quite comfortable a few laps in. Getting out was no joke, but I had two towels with me, and after a few minutes in the hot shower in the changing room and a few minutes wrapped in dry towels, I was right as rain. 

*****

It’s Thursday. We still don’t have hot water at home and the pool water is also pretty darn cold after a few days of chilly overnight temperatures. Swimming in the cold water on a cloudy cool day is nice but not as nice as swimming on a hot day with the water sparkling in the sun. And I’m finding that the cold showers that are really quite delightful at 8:30 AM on a hot day are far less delightful at 6 AM on a 60-degree morning. But I’m standing on my belief that I’m lucky to have clean running water at all, when so many people do not. And there’s nothing wrong with a little discomfort. There’s nothing wrong with starting the day with just a tiny bit of suffering. 

Still, I’ll admit that I was happy to see the box containing the needed parts, which arrived at our house yesterday; and I’ll be overjoyed when the technician actually comes to fix the water heater. The water was freezing this morning. I’m still a little cold just thinking about it. 

***** 

It’s Friday now. For the last week, I have lived with as close to pioneer conditions as I’m willing to endure - no hot water AND no washer (the washer, which had been on its last legs, gave up the ghost the day after the water heater stopped working). And now I am back in the 21st century, where I belong. After one last icy cold shower this morning (the water seemed to get colder every day) and one last day of cramming dirty clothes into the laundry hamper so that the lid would close, I am now equipped with a functioning water heater and a brand-new washing machine. I feel rich, and I am very excited for a warm shower later. Meanwhile, I am going swimming now, and I expect that the water temperature will have dropped a few degrees since my last pool visit on Tuesday. And that’s fine. It’ll take more than cold water to scare me out of the pool. 

Taylor Swift and Thomas Cromwell: Beach Week 2025

It's Beach Week!

Right now, it's Saturday August 9. It's 1157 and the car is packed and my husband is in the house doing his last minute checks, and we'll be on the road by 1202. 

The forecast for this week looks solid. It's quite hot today, bright and sunny, and it feels beachy even here in Silver Spring. The crape myrtle are at peak color, and Stone Harbor will be in wild full bloom too. 

*****

My sister is already in Stone Harbor. They arrive on Saturday morning even though you can't check in until 3. My sister in-law and her family are about 90 minutes ahead of us. My friend and her family have not left yet because she has a few canine and feline patients this morning. She owns her own practice. She's basically a 21st century James Herriot. But even a veterinarian needs a vacation. 

*****

We have a roof carrier, which I hate, and it's making an unsettling amount of noise right now. That's probably the only thing that's bothering me right now. There needs to be something. I'm not comfortable when I don't have something to worry about. 

*****

Traffic is dreadful as usual on 95 on a Saturday in August. But we just crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge and we're in New Jersey. We're listening to the Springsteen channel on Sirius XM as fitting, and Rosalita’s daddy is just about to miss his chance to get his daughter in a fine romance. 

*****

It's Sunday morning now. Five minutes ago, a flock of seagulls were squawking and screeching over my head and now they're gone. It was so loud I couldn't hear myself thinking. 

Now it's quiet and calm, with the only noise coming from the fishing boats on the bay a few feet from our deck, and a few Sunday morning bikers and runners and dog walkers. A lone seagull is perched on the roof on the house across the courtyard, and he appears to be watching me. I'm drinking coffee, and maybe he's hoping I'll bring breakfast out on the deck. Maybe a muffin or some toast or an egg sandwich. But I don't eat anything in the morning so that bird is out of luck unless he wants a nice cup of Cafe Bustelo. 

*****

Our rental condo is very basic, but nice. If I face west on my deck, I can see the bay. If I face east, I can see the pool. We're two blocks from the beach but they're densely built blocks so I'd have to climb up on the roof to see the ocean. But two water views is pretty good, and I'll get to look at the ocean all afternoon. 

*****

The weather is perfect here. The vibe, however, is unsettled. The Jersey Shore has always leaned MAGA but that element was quiet for a few years. Last year, I hardly saw any Trump signs or flags on the island - it was such a marked difference from 2016 and 2020 that I really thought that Kamala could win. Would win, I should say. 

It feels different now. And it's not as simple as flags and signs and red hats. I still haven't seen much of that. But the vibe is definitely off. Something doesn’t feel right. 

*****

Still, it was a perfect beach day yesterday, with 75 degree ocean water. I love swimming in the ocean, and I barely got in at all last year because we were here during a freak cold snap with ocean water temps in the mid 60s, very unusual for August. It was the talk of the town. But yesterday was perfect for ocean swimming. I used to love PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Wooster books, and I remembered a line from a letter from Jeeves to Bertie during a rare seaside holiday from the gentleman’s personal gentleman: “I had an exceedingly enjoyable bathe yesterday.” We, too, had an exceedingly enjoyable bathe yesterday - several in fact. 

It’s Monday now. The sun is out and the sky is pale blue and gold but it’s also quite cloudy so the sunlight is filtered. I haven’t looked at news coverage - online or on TV - since Saturday, but today, I’m anxiously monitoring the news. 47 is about to “federalize” the District of Columbia, and I dread the idea of the National Guard on the streets of DC. Martial law is not out of the realm of possibility, either. Whatever is in the Epstein files, it must be really bad, because DC is as safe as any other place. I am there all the time, and I never feel threatened or even uncomfortable, except when the Capitals lose to Pittsburgh and Penguins fans occupy the steps of the National Portrait Gallery. It’s all very wrong, and very upsetting, and it doesn’t feel right to be here looking at the bay and watching seagulls while all of this is happening or about to happen. 

*****

And it happened. 

It's Tuesday morning now. It's overcast and the water in the bay is the same pearly silvery gray as the sky. I love sunny beach days but I really love watching the bay and hearing the seagulls on an overcast morning. 

I texted my friends who work at CBO and the State Department to see if they were OK. My CBO friend was WFH but my State Department friend was in her office in Foggy Bottom, watching Guardsmen arrive. We're planning a girls trip to Baghdad because if DC is twice as violent as Baghdad then Baghdad must be the safest place on God's green earth. The whole thing would be funny if it wasn't a complete and utter outrage.  

Meanwhile here in Stone Harbor, if you didn't know what was happening, you really would not know what was happening. I guess that could be a good thing. 

*****

It’s Wednesday now. No matter what is happening in the world, Beach Week always passes with blinding speed. Wednesday is the day when we start to reckon with the passage of (vacation) time. We need to figure out what we want to do and where we want to go before the end of the week, which is coming sooner than we think. 

I texted a friend and colleague yesterday. We’re working on a project together, and I had an idea that I wanted to share with her before I forgot about it. I told her that it felt weird and wrong to be on vacation this week, with everything that’s going on, and she texted back that vacationing and resting and enjoying life are radical acts of rebellion in a world that wants us always busy and productive. True to a certain extent, I suppose, but my guilt feelings about vacation have nothing to do with work ethic or productivity. It just feels solipsistic to be out here swimming and biking and collecting shells with all of this (gesturing wildly at everything) going on. It feels like radical rebellion is the radical act of rebellion that’s called for in these circumstances. 

*****

It’s Thursday now, another near-perfect day in this near-perfect week, weather-wise. I’m sick with what I suspect is a mild case of COVID, which is apparently making an uninvited and unwelcome comeback. What else, 2025? Lay it on us. 

No, don’t. Never mind. Forget I said that. 

Yesterday morning, my younger son and his girlfriend, who was spending a few days with us, and I walked to 96th Street, the shopping and restaurant hub of Stone Harbor. The area between 95th and 99th Streets, a few blocks north and south and east and west, is filled with cute little boutiques and coffee shops and restaurants and ice cream places and everything else you’d expect to see in an upscale beach town like Stone Harbor. 

We had a particular destination - Coffee Talk, a coffee house on 97th Street famous for having hosted a very young Taylor Swift during her very early performing days. Taylor’s family vacationed in Stone Harbor, and the young Taylor sang and played her guitar at several local establishments. Coffee Talk, a retro 90s coffee house filled with art and comfortable couches and mismatched rugs, might be the only one of Taylor’s original venues that is still doing business, and there is - of course - a little display of Taylor photos and memorabilia. My son’s girlfriend, a huge Taylor Swift fan, wanted to visit and have coffee and drink in the Taylor vibes, and it was lovely. The kids enjoyed their pastries and drinks. I enjoyed their company and the retro atmosphere (authentic, since the place was actually established in 1995) and of course, a very sweet frozen mocha that was like having a milkshake for breakfast. And then later, social media was abuzz with talk of Taylor’s new album and her appearance on Travis Kelce’s podcast, so Taylor just dominated the conversation yesterday. Well, better Taylor than some other people I can think of. 

After an hour or so of visiting little stores and looking at clothing and trinkets, we started our walk back home, stopping first at my beloved Barrier Island Books on 95th. I overheard a man asking the bookseller if she had anything by Hilary Mantel and because Stone Harbor is a friendly place, I chimed in. “She’s one of my favorite authors.” 

“Mine too,” said the man. “Trying to sell my granddaughter on her,” he said, indicating a young woman who was browsing. “What’s your favorite?” he asked me.

“I love all of her writing,” I said, “and I might like her essays as much as her fiction. But the Wolf Hall trilogy is one of the best things I’ve ever read. It got me through the summer of 2020.” 

“See that?” he said, inclining his head in my direction to his laughing granddaughter. “Unsolicited testimonial.” 

“OK,” she said. “I’ll try her.” The bookseller found copies of Bring up the Bodies and The Mirror and the Light, but not Wolf Hall. The granddaughter said that she was familiar with Henrician and Elizabethan history, making it easily possible for her to enjoy the last two books in the trilogy without reading the first. They walked out with hardback copies of both books. Maybe I’ll run into them again, and I can ask the granddaughter what she thinks. 

*****

It’s Friday now, our last full day at the beach. A brief thunderstorm yesterday afternoon was the only flaw in a week of near-perfect beach weather. And it didn’t start until about 4 PM, not long before we’d have been leaving the beach anyway; and it was over by 7:30. 

The ocean water has been warm and delightful, if you don’t mind a lot of seaweed, and I don’t. I swam in the ocean every day this week and then swam in the pool right after the beach. And then there’s the lovely late afternoon beach siesta time when the rest of my household naps for a bit, and I enjoy the quiet alone time. First I spend a few minutes on basic housekeeping, and then I sit on the deck reading my book while my hair dries. I discovered yet another mid-20th century British woman author this week, and I’ll tell you all about her very soon. Right now, I’m reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, which I have never read before, and which seems very relevant right now. Now every time I look at Kristi Noem or Pete Hegseth, I’m going to wonder if there’s a painting in an attic somewhere. 

*****

Well that was quick. 

It's Saturday morning now. We were up at 7 and out of our beach condo at 915 and now we're on the road back to Maryland. I'll miss the beach and the lovely bay views from our deck but I'm happy to be going home. I miss home. I even miss work but I won't be back until Tuesday. I've always wanted to tack on an extra day at the end of a vacation and I'm doing it this time. It'll be good to have a summer day. 

There's not much summer left. My son returns to school a week from today. Labor Day weekend is in two weeks. Meteorological summer still has a month but I mark the end of the summer season by the pool schedule and the start of the school year. 

*****

Other than the bookends of the occupation of DC and the shameful Trump - Putin “summit" in Alaska, I haven't paid any attention to current events this week. Our beach condo had 3 TVs and I didn't even know how to turn them on. I didn't stream, scroll, or read any news coverage on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. I read Elizabeth Caddell, David Sedaris, and Oscar Wilde. I watched bits of movies and shows and baseball and football games with my husband and sons. It was nice not to see his face or hear his voice for a few days. A nice break. 

We're on Route 55 N right now, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey, with Springsteen keeping us company.  God willing we'll be home by 1. There's lots of work to do after a week away and I'm not going to slow down until everything is unpacked, washed, organized, and stowed neatly away.  It's nice to get away but there's no place like home.

Elements

It’s 10 o’clock on Saturday morning, and I’m sitting on my patio to let my hair dry in the breeze. The heat wave finally broke yesterday and this morning it’s sunny and cool but not chilly. This afternoon it will be warm but not hot. We’re not expecting storms or floods or stifling heat for the next few days. I like the heat, but this is a nice break for people who don’t. 

Yesterday, it was overcast and gray and cool - no warmer than 72 or so even at midday. I worked from home, and then I went swimming. During last week’s heat wave, the pool water had warmed to literal bathwater temperature. It was too warm, and if the water is too warm for me then it’s too warm for pretty much anyone. I was still swimming in it, of course, but swimming laps in 85 degree water is exhausting. 

But after Thursday’s storms and Friday’s cool temperatures, the water cooled a few degrees. It was still very warm, though, and of all swimming scenarios, warm water on a cool cloudy day is my very favorite. I finished work at 445 or so, and was in the water by 5. It was the best 45 minutes of the entire week. 

*****

It’s Sunday now. Yesterday was one of the quietest weekend days of this summer - the first in many weeks when I didn't have to do anything or go anywhere. It was lovely. I read a lot, and napped a little bit, and went swimming. Of course I also went grocery shopping, and did laundry, and cleaned the house and made a simple dinner. I need to have things ship-shape, even on a day off, and I do not have a staff. 

*****

I’ve been shopping too much. It’s like 2020 again, when waiting for packages was the highlight of my lockdown week. “Out for Delivery” - I loved clicking on a tracking number and seeing the Out for Delivery status.  And then there was the fun of opening the package and trying on a new sweater or moving all my stuff into a new purse. And believe it or not, the excess shopping didn’t hurt my finances at all, really. I was saving a lot of money elsewhere - I hardly ever needed gas, and we didn’t go out because there was nowhere to go - and even with weekly donations to food banks and shelters and other causes, I always felt like I had money to spend. 

Fast forward to 2025. My income has increased very slightly but my expenses have increased rather dramatically (although now we’re back to just one child in college, so that’s something of a relief) but I’m back to my 2020 shopping habits, and it’s time to rein it in a bit. For at least the next three months, I’m not buying anything I don’t need, except books. And I always need books so that’s not even an exception. 

*****

Well, we’ll see. That three-month embargo might start later this month because I’m on vacation next week. We’re only going to the beach (only, she says, as if a week at the beach is not quite good enough) and I might need a new Stone Harbor hoodie or t-shirt. Vacation shopping is very similar to vacation eating. It does not count. Check back with me on August 19. 

Yes, August 19 is a Tuesday, because for the first time ever, I am taking an extra day of vacation after we return from our trip. I’ve always wanted to do this, and now I have the time, and I’m going to do it. I have a lot to do so I’ll probably spend it running errands and catching up on everything I neglected during my week away, but that’s as good a way to spend a day as any other. Sometimes it’s nice to just have a day that’s just a day, especially in the summer, and especially when the summer is winding down so fast. The child who just came home for the summer (and who has been out and about every day and night as I suppose he should be) is returning to school on August 24. Labor Day and the Autumnal Equinox are meaningless - as far as I’m concerned, summer is over the moment a kid has to return to school. 

*****

As much as I hate the end of summer, I am also developing a grudging, slight affection for certain aspects of fall. The college swim season starts early this year, with an away meet against Duke and Boston College. A little weekend trip to North Carolina will be fun. I couldn’t care less about football, but I love hockey, and post-season baseball is fun, too. I like fall foliage. I like to sit next to an outdoor fire. I like to wear sweaters and jackets. And I love Thanksgiving

And that’s about it, really. Summer is the best, and it’s not even close. More than the warm weather and sunshine and swimming and long days, I love the freedom of summer, even if it’s illusory freedom. And it IS illusory freedom. It’s not like I take the summer off or anything. It’s not like I have a maid from May to September. It’s not like I stop being me. In fact, with one kid out of school altogether and the other in college and no longer in need of rides to school and practice and games and meets, I’m really no less free in the winter than in the summer. Summer just feels more relaxed. 

*****

It’s Thursday night now and vacation is just a day away. I’m very much looking forward to a week at the beach. My sister and her family and my sister-in-law and her family and my friend and neighbor and her family will all be there too. Separate houses, thankfully, because that would probably be more togetherness than I could take. Because I am the one person connected with everyone in this group, I expect to be pretty popular next week; even more so than usual, that is. The last time we were all at the beach together, I’d be on the deck having coffee at 8 AM or so, and my phone would start blowing up with messages about dinner plans. I learned quickly to just not answer those texts because I’d see everyone later that morning on the beach, and we could just figure it out then. Maybe I should just block everyone. 

*****

Friday, 5 PM. I’m officially on vacation now, kind of. “Kind of” because something hit the proverbial fan today and I’ll probably need to work for a bit on and off over the weekend, and maybe for an hour or two here or there during the week. It happens. It’s not the end of the world. 

Meanwhile, I’m done for today until or unless something else happens, so I’m trying to decide between a walk and a swim. Normally, this is the easiest decision in the world. Swimming is pretty much always the answer. But the temperatures have dropped quite a bit during this last week, and the water temperatures have fallen too. I swam on Wednesday after a couple of days away from the pool, and it was a slight shock to my system, which has become accustomed to swimming in Jacuzzi-like water. But I adjusted, and it was lovely. It’s no warmer today, but it’s been sunny all day so maybe the water has warmed up a degree or two. At the least, maybe it hasn’t gotten any colder. I think I just made my decision. I think I talked myself into the pool. I’ll report back later. 

Not a drill

Right around this time last year, I wrote about a fire drill at the Navy base where I work. It happened on a beautiful August day, and we all took our time strolling away from our desks. We gathered in our own good time on the ball field behind the library, teasing each other about how nonchalant we all were. “What would you people do if it was a real fire?” Several people predicted, correctly, that our very poor performance on this drill pretty much guaranteed that another drill would follow soon. We did much better the second time. 

It’s 11 in the morning now, on a hot sunny Thursday, the last day in July, and this time it’s not a drill. And it’s not a fire. There’s an active shooter on the base, and I’m sitting in a locked office with the window blinds closed and my phone on silent. The only noise is the faint hum of an air purifier and the repeated warnings from the “Big Voice” system, muffled through the locked doors. 

What in the actual hell? That’s all I can think of right now. Well, I’m also thinking about food, because I’m hungry and didn’t bring lunch today and can’t go to the cafeteria to get lunch. At least I have a banana. 

*****

It’s Friday night now, the day after the almost-active shooter incident. “Almost” because the person was real and the incident was real and not a drill, but the gun was fake. If that isn’t a metaphor for 2025, the literal dumbest year on record, then I don’t know what is. 

The whole thing was over in 45 minutes. My husband, who is a detective with Montgomery County Police, texted me when the “suspect” was arrested, and the Navy police gave the all-clear about 15 minutes later. We were all relieved, of course, but I think we all felt a little silly afterward. I felt a little silly afterward, anyway. And I wasn’t even scared - concerned, but not scared. The building where the person was first reported was far enough from my building that the shooter (as we believed him to be) would need a few minutes to get to us, and by then, he’d have been caught. And believe it or not, I’m not afraid of a person with a gun. Tell me that there’s a rat or a rabid coyote or an ax-wielding madman on the loose, and I’ll be properly terrified. But I’d try to tackle a shooter, or beat him with my 45-pound Tory Burch work tote. 

Still, it’s just as well that I didn’t have to. We all opened our doors and our window blinds, and we went about the rest of our day as though nothing happened, and I suppose that nothing did happen. I even got to eat my favorite cafeteria chicken Caesar wrap. 

Mystery solved

So as I mentioned in my last post, my old lady (yes, she is mine - it is way too late to return her) is still alive thank God, and in a rehab facility after a short hospitalization, just as I suspected. She called me one day, out of the blue, from an unfamiliar number. I must have known on some level that it was she who was calling because I do not answer calls from unknown numbers. 

I was glad to hear her voice and glad to see that she wasn’t mad at me, not that I’d have cared much because what complaint could she possibly have against me? But it did cross my mind that she might have blamed me for calling the ambulance. I wasn’t the person who called the ambulance, but I did call the police when she didn’t answer the phone or the door for two straight days.  

She seemed much better than she had been the last few times we’d spoken. She acknowledged that she was feeling better but she didn’t (nor will she ever) connect the improvement in her health with the medical attention - as far as she’s concerned, she’d have gotten better on her own. Meanwhile, she had authorized her attorney to hire a cleaning service and some contractors to get her house back in shape during her convalescence, and she was outraged that they had spent over $10,000. Having seen that house, I can tell you that $10,000 would be an absolute bargain. The cleaning alone had to cost at least half of that. But this happens when people get old - their financial memories are fixed at a point in the distant past, and nothing should cost more than it did at that time. I’m guessing that this lady’s fixed point is sometime around 1985. That’s where my mom’s financial memory is stuck, and they’re about the same age. My mom is shocked every time she buys a coffee and it costs more than a dollar. 

*****

She called me again a few days later. She still doesn’t have a date for her return home but wanted to see if I would be willing to get some groceries for her. And yes, I am willing to do this but I’m not willing to follow ever more arcane and difficult and confusing instructions for how the items should be bagged and organized and placed on her doorstep. Nor am I willing to enter her house when she’s not home. She spent 15 minutes complaining to me about “perfectly good” luggage and household items that the cleaning crews had apparently discarded. She was sure that valuables will also have gone missing, and she said that she’d be looking carefully through her house and making a list of items that the cleaners and her attorney would need to account for. And then in the very next breath, she said that she’d call me in the next few days with a grocery list, and that the house was unlocked and that I could just go right inside and put everything in the kitchen so that it would be there when she arrived home. 

Needless to say, I nixed that plan immediately. Much to her disappointment, I told her that I’d wait until she was actually home, and that I’d drop the groceries off out front like I used to do. She told me that if I “didn’t feel comfortable” going in the house by myself, that I could call her neighbor to come and help me. I’m sure that this neighbor, whoever they might be, would be no more enthusiastic about this suggestion than I was, and I politely but firmly reiterated my refusal to enter her house without her in it. I don't want to go in that house even when she's home but I'm certainly not going in there when she's not home so that she can later accuse me of stealing her Hummels or her 1977 Samsonite luggage. 

And so we wait. As I said, she sounded much better when we spoke than she had earlier in the spring. But she also gave me some background on the health issues that put her in the rehab in the first place and so I don’t think she’s coming home quite as soon as she thought. I wish her a full recovery, and will be happy to resume my weekly shopping trips as soon as she’s back up and around. 

Una semana de verano

It’s Saturday afternoon, hot and sunny with no immediate threat of storms, and I just finished a lovely swim. The neighborhood swim team’s Divisional championship was this morning, and it was fun to be there as a spectator with no jobs to do. The team did well - they came close to a win but we only got one of the relays. Relays are worth a lot of points, and if the Dolphins had won all five relays or even four of the five, they would have been assured of a victory. There’s always next year. 

We are leaving shortly for a quick visit to Philadelphia. My sister is having a midsummer party, with a “Jaws” theme in honor of the movie’s 50th anniversary. I’m wearing red white and blue because “It’s the Fourth of July, for Christ’s sake.” We’re going to the beach next month, and my sister wants us all to go to a special “Jaws” screening. I swim in the ocean, and I’m not excited about the idea of watching “Jaws” and then getting in the water the next day. My sister never goes in the water past her ankles, so she’s not worried about it. 

*****

We're on our way back home now. It's Sunday morning, 10 AM, and I'm in the passenger seat this time. It was a fun summer get together. The weather is unsettled, as usual. This summer is going to live in memory for a lot of reasons, mostly bad, including this absolute cluster of Old Testament weather. Terrible weather, middle aged white people caught cheating on their spouses at a Coldplay concert, and Trump's swollen ankles. Just ridiculous. The very stupidest of all stupid timelines, as they say on the Internet. 

*****

I lost my Wordle streak a few days ago, and not on the word that everyone was complaining about. It was just one of those letter combinations that could have been any word and I ran out of guesses. I had a 177 game streak and had hoped to pass 200 but it wasn't to be. But my win percentage remains 99% and I have a new streak underway. 

*****

I have to give a speech this week, which makes it one of those weeks that I just need to get through. The first half of this week is going to be a bit chaotic for a lot of reasons. It'll be fine. And I don’t love the idea of wishing away several days of my life, but I will be glad when Friday is here. 

*****

Since we’re covering the sports and weather, I’ll also update you on the news. My old lady is alive and well; rather, she’s as well as can be expected. As I wrote here, I knew that she had been taken to the hospital, and I thought that she’d gone from the hospital to a rehab facility but I didn’t know which one, and the ones that I called denied all knowledge of a resident by her name. After a few weeks, I stopped calling her and checking at her house. I Googled her name every so often wondering if she had died, but there was no obituary. It was a mystery. 

Then last week, I got a call from an unfamiliar local number, and I actually picked up the phone. I usually ignore calls from unknown numbers. And there she was, calling from a rehab facility in Rockville. There’s lots more to this, of course, and I’ll share it with you in great detail and at considerable length, but right now I’m going to just keep documenting this odd little week. 

*****

It’s Wednesday now. I have a house full of electricians working on my husband’s crazy pet project of electrifying the gazebo on our patio. I absolutely don’t need electricity in that gazebo, but my husband is very excited about this. And I don’t mind except that I do wish that he’d schedule contractors to come at a time when he’s going to be at home. They never fail to ask me questions that I cannot answer. 

My speech is written and it's longer than I planned, but it’s very good if I say so myself. I’m pretty sure I’m going to bring the house down. I’d still so much rather be in the audience listening to someone else give this speech. I’d rather be pretty much anywhere other than in the spotlight. But I’m sure I’ll feel differently once I get the first laugh. 

*****

I killed that speech. I know it’s boastful to say that but first of all, who is reading this and second of all, I’m not the only person who thinks the speech was good. Many people complimented me. My children complimented me. It’s so nice when a thing that I dreaded turns out better than I expected, and it’s also nice that the whole thing is over. 

And the electrical work is done, too. Tuesday and Wednesday just felt like very chaotic days - I had an overnight guest, which was lovely; and I had contractors stomping in and out and making noise all the livelong day, which was not; and of course I had that speech hanging over my head like the sword of what’s-his-name. But it’s Thursday now, and everything is quiet and back in order. No one was home tonight, so I didn’t have to cook. The work week is winding down and I have a no-plans weekend for the first time in many weeks. I have volunteer work to do and the house isn’t going to compulsively clean itself but I will get a day or so of down time, just in time. 

*****

The longed-for Friday brought a return of the intense heat, which I happen to like, but only because I have air conditioning at home and at work and in my car, and I have a swimming pool around the corner from my house. I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t like the heat so much if I had to endure it without the ability to escape into a cooled space or jump into lovely blue water. 

But the summer is winding down now. Now that I no longer live by the swim team calendar, the crepe myrtle are my signal of the beginning of the end. It’s hard to complain, though, when you live in a neighborhood filled with crepe myrtle trees because they are just so beautiful, bursting with pink and magenta and white and red flowers. And even though their presence is a daily reminder that we’re about to be strapped onto a freight train that begins on Labor Day and goes top speed with very few stops until Christmas, we still have about six weeks of swimming and evening daylight. I’ll take it. 

Full House

My mom is here for the week. With my sons also at home for the summer, it’s a full house. I’m working from home for the entire week because I don’t like to leave my mom alone. She’s not too steady on her feet and when she gets stiff, she has a hard time getting up on her own. I fuss over her a lot when she’s here, and she doesn’t seem to mind. I think she likes it, really. 

We’ve been doing this - having her stay here for a week at a time -  for about two years now, and there’s a routine. My mom arrives on Sunday, late morning or early afternoon. My brother, who drives her here, stays for about five minutes and then he hits the road for the return trip. My mom stows all of her stuff, ⅔ of which she will not use, in the spare bedroom. I sit with her on the patio when it’s nice and in the family room when it’s not, and I keep her company while she watches her favorite TV shows. I make breakfast and lunch. Sometimes I make dinner and sometimes we go out and sometimes we pick up dinner to go. In the spring and fall and winter, I take about 45 minutes during the day to walk. In the summer, I run out to the pool to swim laps. We spend the evening together, and then I go to bed at about 11. My mom stays up late. I usually wake up at around 2, and find her sound asleep in a chair, and I make her go to bed. 

*****

I have a friend who asks me where my husband is every time I appear in public without him, which is to say all the time. My husband works a lot, and he often works at odd times so I often go places without him. Every time, my friend asks me where he is. 

With my mom here, not only am I constantly asked about my husband every time he’s not in the house; I am also expected to account for the whereabouts of the other members of the household at all hours of the day and night. My sons are 24 and almost 21. The older one has graduated from college, and still lives at home (and is welcome to continue living here for as long as he likes). The younger one is home for the summer, and is coaching two different swim teams while also doing a part-time internship with a minor league baseball team. Both of these boys - men - are employed and busy and free to come and go as they please. They tell me where they’re going and when they’ll be back and when they plan to be away all night, but I don’t give my mom the full report. I just tell her “Don’t worry about them, they’re fine,” and she says “I just like to make sure that everyone is safe.” 

You know all those stories that GenX people tell about running wild all day and night, and not being allowed in the house during the day, and drinking out of the neighbors’ hoses? Yeah, all of that is true, and it’s hilarious that my mother is more worried about the safety of my grown sons much more than she ever worried about me when I was still an actual child. 

*****

On Tuesday evening, I took my mom shopping at Kohl’s. She has mobility issues, and trudging around a department store is difficult for her but I know her tastes and her sizes very well, and we have had a great deal of shopping success when I act as her personal shopper. I find her a chair, she sits down, I ask what type of thing she’s looking for, and I run around and bring stuff back for her to look at. When she was here in May, she got a skirt, two t-shirts, two cardigans, and a rain jacket - all picked by me. Yesterday, she was looking for loungewear, undergarments, and socks. Kohl’s had a wheelchair available, so I put her in the wheelchair so that she could see the entire store. We found everything she wanted, and she had a good time except for my near collision with a clothing rack. You can’t look away to say hello to a neighbor while you’re pushing a wheelchair or it will veer off course. Lesson learned. 

*****

It was stormy on Wednesday night. It was stormy on Tuesday night, too, but those storms passed through quickly, and Wednesday’s storms lingered throughout the night. A great deal of rain has fallen here in the last few days, but it’s more humid now, not less. Maryland’s climate has already changed. It’s tropical here now. We’re like Florida with a little bit more winter and a lot less fascism. 

My mom kept looking out the windows on Wednesday night. “Are your cushions OK?” she’d ask. “Do you need to put your furniture away? Is stuff going to blow away?” A crash of thunder, and she’d say “Where are the boys? Are they out driving in this? They’re not out driving in this, are they?” It’s absolutely hilarious that I am the one out here saying “Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine. Everyone is fine.” “Don’t worry about it” is not my line. We’re in Opposite World. We’re in an alternate timeline. 

*****

Muriel Spark’s Memento Mori, one of my favorite novels, is about a group of very old people in postwar Britain who receive anonymous notes and phone calls from a series of mysterious strangers. The messengers and the medium vary but the message is always the same “Remember you must die.” I won’t give away the plot other than to say that there’s a murder, but the murder has nothing to do with the anonymous messages, which are reminders, not threats. We all must die, so the memento mori “Remember you must die” is just the plain truth. 

I don’t have the book in front of me so I’ll paraphrase except for the phrase “potent distillations” - the characters have all reached the age at which they no longer try to subdue their personalities. The filter is gone. They have become “potent distillations” of themselves, more intensified and concentrated versions of the people they have always been, for better or for worse. 

This is just a random literary observation, apropos of absolutely nothing. 

*****

It’s Saturday morning now. My mom is leaving tomorrow. I’m not sure what we’ll do today. With her limited mobility, my mom can’t walk long distances or really any distance at all. She’d like to go to a flea market and although I would not normally choose to visit a flea market, I certainly wouldn’t mind doing that. There are a few flea markets and farmers’ markets in the area but finding parking literally next to the venue with little or no walking required would be challenging. We’ll see. 

My mom is sitting next to me right now. She doesn’t know that I’m writing about her. LOL. My poor sister spent the entire week cleaning her hoarder house, and not only is my mother messaging a Facebook contact right now about purchasing even more Byers Choice carolers (IYKYK and if you don’t then count your fucking blessings) but she will spend the next week complaining about the house because she likes her clutter the way it is. And if she lived by herself and could take care of herself then it wouldn’t be any of our business. But my sister lives with her and takes care of her and the clutter and mess drive her insane. I don’t know how she does it. And now I’m thinking that a flea market is exactly where my mother doesn’t need to go because she doesn’t need to buy any more junk. We’ll find a farmer’s market instead. 

*****

It’s Sunday afternoon now. I took my mom home this morning; or rather, I took her to the Maryland House and handed her off to my brother, who took her home to Philadelphia. I’m always sad when she goes home, even though she drives me crazy and her visits leave me exhausted. But it will be nice to have my house in order again. She’s just as messy here as she is at home. I will not miss seeing mom stuff on every flat surface in the house. 

We did end up going to a farmer’s market yesterday, which was rather difficult given the heat and lack of shade and lack of close-by parking. But we managed. We took our time walking from my car to the market, and I was able to borrow a chair from a kind vendor so that she could sit for a few minutes, and she seemed to have a good time. We had lunch in one of our favorite neighborhood restaurants; and when we finally got home and out of the sun, my mom napped on the couch in the dark cool family room with “Father Brown” on TV in the background. She’s not low-maintenance but she doesn’t ask for much when it comes to entertainment, either - a farmer’s market and lunch and a couple of quick errands is a nice busy day for her. 

I’m hoping to swim today but the weather is unsettled. I experienced at least 10 weather events on my way to and from the Maryland House today; a total of about 3.5 hours round trip. Maybe things will settle down a bit. But meanwhile, I’m going to catch up on laundry and get my house back in order and get ready for a new week. My mom’s next visit will probably be in September. I’ll provide a full report. 

I think it was the Fourth of July

I was six years old when Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” was a top 40 radio hit. I loved that song. I still do. Eighties “Power of Love” Chicago is trash, but 70s “Saturday in the Park” Chicago is awesome. That’s a pop music hill that I will die on. 

When I was little, I always wondered about the “I think it was the Fourth of July” part. You THINK it was the Fourth of July? How would you not KNOW? How would you not remember that it was the Fourth of July? July 4th was a big deal in working class 1970s Philadelphia. Our street of tiny rowhouses got very little through traffic; and on the Fourth of July, my uncles set up the barbecue grill right on the sidewalk outside their side yard gate, and they strung a badminton net from their porch to the high stoop across the street. My dad and my uncles grilled hamburgers and hot dogs and my mom and my aunts made potato salad and macaroni salad and the freezer was full of red, white, and blue popsicles. There was a parade through the neighborhood. The parade ended around noon, and the party started soon after, and went well into the evening. We never had real fireworks but we did have sparklers and those little cracky things that you throw down onto the sidewalk. Everyone had flags and bunting on display. July 4th was an occasion. It was an event. It was a legitimate holiday. 

*****

My kids also grew up celebrating the Fourth. Our neighborhood has a little parade with kids on their decorated bikes and scooters; and the neighborhood civic association holds games and a magic show at the pool. The magician, who has been performing in our neighborhood for 20 years or more, used to look like a young Bill Murray. Now he just looks like Bill Murray. Members can bring guests to the pool for free, and it’s the most crazy crowded day of the year. You can’t even find a deck chair. It’s pretty great. 

I still went to the pool on Friday. There was still a parade. The kids still played games and watched the magic show. People still hung flags and bunting. I cut up a watermelon and made some hamburgers. I even made macaroni salad. But it was just July 4th, it wasn’t the Fourth of July. 

*****

I’m not surprised at all at how much damage the Trump regime has done in just six months. They told us what they were going to do and now they’re doing it. In 2020, I told everyone who would listen that the second Trump term would be far worse than the first. I didn't expect that the second term would start in 2025, but I was right about that one thing - the second Trump administration is far worse than the first. Even Joe Rogan is starting to wonder aloud if Trump might - just might - be a fascist. Yeah, Joe, he is. Thanks for figuring that out about a year too late. 

*****

America has never been perfect (not even close) and spoiler alert, it never will be. But Trump and his gang are gleefully destroying everything that’s good and deliberately exacerbating everything that’s bad, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But I think it will get better. The Fourth of July will be back. 

Cruel Summer

On Saturday morning, I was standing on a pool deck waiting for a race to begin as Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” blared from the announcing table’s sound system, and it felt like 2012 again. 

2012 was a nice summer. The company that I was working for at the time eliminated our entire division in the middle of June, leaving me unemployed; and if you have school age swim team kids, summer is a good time to be unemployed. My kids were 11 and almost 8. We went to swim practice twice a day, with meets on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings. We went to the library every week, and we went to museums and the County airport, where we watched planes take off and land while eating grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries at the airport lunch counter. We did a lot of hanging around. Kids that age are great company and a lot of fun to hang around with. The hanging around part is what I remember best about that summer. 

My sons are 24 and almost 21 now, but now it’s their cousins’ turn to continue the summer swim team tradition, which means that I still get to go to summer swim meets, but I don’t have to show up early, nor stay late, nor judge stroke and turn infractions. My nephew is 12 and my niece is 8, and they are both very good swimmers. They’re also very good company. 

*****

Today is July 1. July is the real heart of summer, especially in Maryland and the rest of the Mid-Atlantic states. In Maryland, school ends in June, and it starts in August, making July the only month untouched by school unless you count the back-to-school advertising that begins on July 4. 

Last night, I left work at 5. It’s a holiday week, and traffic was blessedly light, and I resolved to go swimming the moment I got home so that I could avoid the threatened thunderstorm. I arrived home just before 5:30 and I was in the pool swimming laps by 5:45. The swim team was on its annual Hersheypark trip, and so the pool was not as crowded as it normally would have been at 5:45 PM, and the air was muggy and hot, and the water was just barely cool. The sun was shining brightly, but a few clouds looked threatening, and the atmosphere felt volatile, like a storm could break open at any minute. A little rain fell, even as the sun was still shining on the water - ideal swimming conditions. Then I came home and pulled some tomatoes off the plants in our garden and sliced them up for salad. The house was peaceful, and the cool of the water stayed with me for hours. It was as perfect a summer evening as I could have asked for. 

*****

Or it would have been. Today is July 2. The new budget bill, the one that’s going to take food away from hungry children, passed the Senate yesterday, right around the time that DHS and their henchmen in Florida cut the ribbon on a brand-new concentration camp in the Everglades. The place, which they’re gleefully calling “Alligator Alcatraz” but which I will only refer to as the Ochopee Concentration Camp, has already flooded on its second day of operation. So that’s fortunate, I suppose - the people imprisoned there will die of dysentery or typhoid or malaria rather than being eaten by alligators or strangled by pythons. A somewhat cruel fate instead of a hideously cruel fate.

And that’s the thing that’s bothering me - that's what's wrong. It’s the cruelty of right now, not the nostalgia for a relatively peaceful time over a decade ago. Even garden tomatoes can’t make this right. Even a swim can’t wash away the sadness. For the first time in my life, I have problems that summer cannot solve. 

Just a girl

It’s been a long week. It’s Saturday now. I worked only four days this week, and work was the least of my worries. The four-day workweek was not because of a holiday but because I was out on Monday for my cousin’s funeral. Just a few days ago, but it seems like ages. 

The funeral was very sad. I’m not especially close to my aunt anymore (thanks Fox News). The man I still refer to as my uncle, who was always exceptionally kind to me when I was a child, is no longer married to my aunt. She remarried many years ago to a man who is pleasant and polite, but also a Trump worshipper, and so I generally avoid conversation with him because there’s nothing you can say about anything that he can’t run through the MAGA filter and throw right back at you. It’s not worth it. 

But my aunt is still my aunt and my Godmother (and she still introduces me as her Godchild) and I still love her. And even if I didn’t, how could I possibly not feel compassion for a 78-year-old woman who just lost her only daughter. At 78, a person must feel that no matter what else goes wrong, at least you’ve passed the danger of outliving a child. Having witnessed it several times, I can confidently say that the saddest thing in the world is watching parents bury their children, no matter the age. 

*****

My cousin was a girly girl. She loved boy bands and makeup and hairstyling and fashion. She didn’t like sports. It’s always easy for men and boys and some women, too, to mock and ridicule girls like her, and my cousin endured quite a bit of that kind of “humor” from her brother and her uncles and cousins. Even in his eulogy, her brother (also my cousin, obviously) joked about her clothes and her ineptitude at softball and her NKOTB fandom. And he loved his sister, and could barely get through his remarks without breaking down, but making fun of a girl because she’s a girl is just part of the language among working class Catholics. Misogyny is both born and bred in our families. The men and boys ridicule us for having two X chromosomes and we have two possible ways to respond: You can get upset, knowing that absolutely no one will defend you and that they will in fact very likely yell at you to “get a sense of humor;” or you can laugh along to show what a “good sport” you are. 

*****

When I was young, I wished that I was the good sport type of girl, the cool girl who rolls with the punches and doesn’t get mad at her sexist classmates and brother and cousins and uncles and dad and grandfather (yeah, it was pretty much everywhere). But I was not a cool girl, and I’m glad now that I wasn’t. I’m glad I got upset every time someone said that I ran like a girl or threw a ball like a girl. I’m glad that I got mad when my brother didn’t have to help with dishes or cooking or laundry or cleaning because “he’s a boy.” I’m glad that I got furious at every boy who pulled up my skirt or snapped my bra strap. I’m glad I knew that none of that was OK. And guess what? The cool girls knew it too. And they were raging the whole time - they just didn’t want anyone to know. 

*****

When she was young, my cousin tried to be a cool girl. We were not contemporaries, really - I am 12 years older - but I saw her often enough when she was a teenager and young woman to know that she wanted to come across as casually cool and nonchalant, like a girl who didn’t care about her hair or her makeup or her reputation. I was old enough to tell her not to pretend to be something she wasn’t, but I didn’t tell her that. Nothing would have been less helpful. No teenage girl wants to hear that she just needs to “be herself.” She’d have bristled at the very idea that she wasn’t 100 percent authentic and real. But as she got older, she became more like herself - feminine in a girly way, vulnerable, even needy. She was the kind of girl and the kind of woman that people describe as “a bit much.” She never married and didn’t have serious relationships, and most people would think that she didn’t have much of a life. Maybe she didn’t. She struggled with drugs and alcohol and was often unhappy. But she had friends. She loved her friends and their children, and she loved animals, and she loved music and fashion and movies and TV and pretty things. I hope she’s at peace now. 

Cousins

It’s Saturday now, a legit hot sunny summer morning in June after weeks of weather better suited for April than June. Two years ago, 9 AM on a Saturday morning in June would have found me on the pool deck with a whistle or stopwatch around my neck, but instead I’m on my patio listening to the cheering and the whistles and the Colorado starter as I sit in my pajamas writing. The pool is just a little more than a block from my house. Other people always told me that you could hear the noise from the meets for a several block radius, and they were right. 

*****

Last week - a week ago today - my cousin died. She was 47. She never married and she never had children, and she had a lot of problems, sadly. She had a hard time with other people - she wasn’t mean or anything - far from it, really. She just didn’t know how to navigate the world. Lots of people are like that, and I wish we could make more room for them. I wish we could all be kinder and more accepting. 

My cousin also had a lot of health problems, some related to mental illness and substance misuse, but not all. She struggled a lot this last year or so. She was hospitalized last year for a bit, and when she got out, I sent her a letter and an Ulta gift card. Her mother, my aunt on my mother’s side, called me to tell me that I could not have picked a better thing to send her because she loves cosmetics and fancy skin care but doesn’t often have the extra money to buy them. I was glad I could make her happy for a little bit. 

I saw her a few months later at my mother’s 80th birthday party. She did not look well, and she was oddly clingy with me. It was almost as if we were children again, me the 14-year-old oldest grandchild and she the two-year-old youngest of the grandchild crew, toddling around after me wherever I went. I stayed with her and brought her snacks and drinks and listened to her complaints about her job and her excited chatter about concerts she was planning to attend. And even though there was something very obviously off about her demeanor, I was glad she still felt comfortable hanging around with me and I enjoyed listening to her. That was the last time I saw her, and I’m glad I spent time with her. I’m glad she had a good time at the party. I hope she’s at peace now. 

*****

I can hear shouts of “GO! GO! GOOOOOOO!” from here. That’s my son cheering for his swimmers. He sounds like a 20-year-old male version of me at a swim meet. And now it’s go time for me. 

*****

Given what happened last week and especially given what happened last night, Saturday was an oddly peaceful day. I dropped into the neighborhood swim meet to see my son coaching his kids, and to say hi to my swim parent friends, and then I went to yet another swim meet, to see my 12-year-old nephew and my 8-year-old niece. They both crushed it - my niece won her freestyle event with an All-Stars qualifying time, and my nephew also did very well. When I ran over to congratulate him after his 50 breaststroke race, he said “I didn’t know you were coming, but I could hear you yelling GOOOOOO!” “You swim like Evan,” I said. This is high praise from me, and high praise to a boy who idolizes his older cousin. 

*****

My younger cousin’s funeral is tomorrow. We’ll go to New Jersey in the morning and come back in the afternoon. We thought about going for a few days but we decided against it. If anything happens, I want to be close to home. 

Mystery

It’s Thursday, which is normally the day when I grocery shop for my crazy old lady. I’ve been doing her shopping for five years now, almost always on Thursday nights. I call her on Wednesday night, I get her list, and then I shop on Thursday after work. But not this week, and not for the last few weeks. 

About a month ago, when I couldn’t reach her on the phone, I walked to her house and banged on the door. I knew she wouldn’t come to the door (I have never actually seen her) - I wanted to just hear her yell back that she was OK. But she didn’t. I called her again, and she didn’t answer and so I called the police to do a wellness check. A short time later, my phone rang. A young police officer told me that the lady had been taken to the hospital a few days earlier following a 911 call from another neighbor. My mom was with me that week, so I didn’t go to visit her right away but when my mom left, I called the hospital to ask about her. She wasn’t there, and they - of course - would not give me any information about whether she’d been there at all, if she’d been discharged, sent to rehab, died, whatever. 

So I called her again, and I stopped at her house and banged on the door and yelled again. Nothing. I’ve continued to call and stop by, at least once a week; and yesterday, I noticed that the grass had been cut. Her house is falling apart, but one thing she always did was to have someone cut the grass once or twice a month, and they’re obviously still doing it. And I am pretty sure she’s not dead because I have checked the obituaries many times. My guess is that she is in a rehab or assisted living facility somewhere - this is what I hope, anyway. We have called a few local places but we haven’t found her. 

*****

The thing is that if she was in a rehab or assisted living place, she would probably call me - I would hope she would, anyway. She has my number, and she probably has it memorized because she uses an old-fashioned landline, so she probably doesn’t have speed dial (a great convenience, but I do miss having tons of phone numbers just memorized). Knowing with some degree of certainty that she’s still alive, and that as recently as six weeks ago she was reasonably lucid (crazy, but lucid), I am thinking about two possibilities. One, she’s injured or sick enough that she doesn’t feel well enough to call me, or she just simply can’t. Another is that she’s mad at me, and doesn’t want to speak to me. 

It sounds ridiculous (and it would be ridiculous) that this lady would be mad at the person who literally kept her alive for the last five years, but she’s a bit of a character, as I have previously established. Last year, when she started to experience health issues, she called me complaining of chest pain and shortness of breath. I told her that I was going to hang up and call 911, and that I could ride with her to the hospital if she wanted a companion. She was furious at the very suggestion. I should have known, apparently, that someone with her (imaginary) condition and sensitivities would be unable to endure even five minutes in a hospital surrounded by machines and radioactive isotopes and Purell. The Purell was a bigger concern than the radioactive isotopes. She was outraged at my ignorance. 

Fear of hospitals is not uncommon among older people and I definitely understand not wanting to get in an ambulance, but I didn’t really see an alternative. I have no medical training whatsoever, and so the emergency room is my only suggestion when someone complains of classic heart attack symptoms. At this point, I was a little upset too, because she all but accused me of trying to kill her. 

She called me again the next day and asked me if I knew of a neighbor who is a nurse. She was thinking about a specific person, and the description did not ring a bell, so I couldn’t supply the name. She asked me to look in the neighborhood directory, which no longer exists, although I do have an old copy. I told her that I’d look when I got home, and that I’d call her back. I didn’t tell her that if we did find a nurse in the neighborhood who was willing to visit, that she would immediately call 911 if she suspected a heart attack. 

It was the day after that when I called and visited and then called the police. Piecing together what I know, I guess that she did finally find the nurse’s name and number, and that she (the nurse) was the neighbor who called the ambulance. Maybe she blames me for that - maybe she thinks that this nursing neighbor and I were plotting to Shanghai her to the hospital. Maybe the nurse denied having made the call. Or maybe my old lady is really sick or otherwise debilitated and not able to call. Or maybe she’s in good hands and doesn’t need to call me because she doesn’t need me anymore. Whatever it is, it would be nice to know what happened. It would be nice to know if she’s OK. 

Hydrotherapy

Last week, a plane crashed in India, killing over 200 people. Then the Department of Homeland Security handcuffed and body slammed a US Senator who dared to ask the Secretary a question. And then Israel started dropping bombs on Iran.  In a year of really not good weeks, last week was an especially not good week. 

On Thursday night, I also got to swim for the first time this summer. Between unseasonable stupid cold and nonstop rain and one damn thing after another, I hadn’t been in the water even once since the pool opened. I tried to swim on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend but the water was North Atlantic in April cold. I wouldn’t have swum in that water unless I was assured of access to a floating door. 

The water was pretty much perfect. Swim practice was just finishing up and I got the one open lane. My son was coaching the 8-and-under girls as they practiced their breaststroke. I could hear him reminding them to pull toward their chests, not their hips. “Much better this time! Two hand touch, don’t forget! You guys got this!”  It was still midday bright at 6:30 PM, and the sun was still shining on the water and the trees were still rustling in the breeze and the lifeguards were still blowing their whistles and yelling “WALK!” at the swim team kids as they finished practice and headed toward the showers. I swam back and forth at my usual uneven pace, and felt totally free. For 45 minutes, it was like every other perfect summer evening. 

*****

I bought some new super thick Sharpies and made a new sign - Impeach 47 on the front and Abolish ICE on the back - for the No Kings protest on Saturday morning. At the top of that sign, I also wrote “Give me your huddled masses…” If my sons had been home on Friday night, I’d have asked them to draw a Statue of Liberty on my sign, because they can draw and I cannot. But my hand-lettering skills are solid, and the sign was good. 

And I got to swim again on Friday night. The weather was very uncertain all afternoon, and I knew it was going to rain - I just didn’t know when. I wanted to beat the storm so I finished work at 4:55 and I was in the pool at 5:08. The 8U kids were practicing their races for Saturday’s meet. “Remember,” my son yelled - “you’re going to sprint. Gwen, Jovie, Gianluca, David, Ada - eyes on me. What does ‘sprint’ mean?” Five little faces looked up and five little voices yelled back in unison: “Go as fast as you can!” My son is a good swimmer, and he’s a really good coach. 

The water was colder than I expected, but I didn’t dilly-dally. I got in and swam my laps as the sky got darker and the wind picked up, and I heard lifeguards calling back and forth to one another. “Was that thunder?” “No, it’s like half an hour away.” Pool lifeguards live by the radar, and they can predict a thunderstorm as well as any TV forecaster. 

*****

The protest was well-attended and energetic. Two drivers passing by flipped us off, and a few others stared resolutely ahead pretending that they didn’t see hundreds of people lining both sides of Georgia Avenue, but I would say about 90 percent of the people driving by honked and cheered and waved in approval. Truck drivers and bus drivers and police officers and a USPS driver who honked and waved got big rounds of applause in return. I ran into a few other alumni swim parents, and we all talked about our old summer Saturday mornings on the pool deck and our new summer Saturday mornings fighting fascism. This isn’t what any of us expected to be doing in our post-Dolphins era, but we’re still swim parents and swim parents do what needs to be done. 

I came home on Saturday buoyed with stick-it-to-the-man energy, and then got some rather terrible news that I’ll probably write about later. Remember December 31, 2020 when we were all “See ya, 2020, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” just so blithely sure that whatever happened next, it would have to be an improvement over 2020? LOL! Hilarious. 

*****

Well, when I say “we” were sure that things had nowhere to go but up after the shit show we fondly recall as the year 2020, I mean other people. I was hopeful, even cautiously optimistic, but I’m always prepared for even worse than the worst. I’m always waiting for the hammer to fall. You should hang out with me some time, because I’m really fun. 

But I’m alive and I have my family and my friends and my health, and pretty much everything else is icing on the cake. Including the unexpected Saturday afternoon weather break that allowed me to swim for the third straight day. The water had gotten a bit colder again after the Friday night rain, but it was the good, bracing kind of cold, the kind that shocks you just enough that you don’t really think about anything other than staying in motion. A few minutes of not thinking was exactly what I needed. It was nice to feel free and weightless for a little while. It’s nice to know that there are still little bright spots here and there, as long as you know where to look. 

Best ever

It’s Sunday and I’m in the Philadelphia suburbs, at my sister's house. We drove up yesterday and we're going home today after my nephew's graduation lunch. I’m not sure why they decided to have a lunch gathering on Sunday afternoon rather than a party on Saturday night but it's not my business. I show up when and where I'm invited. 

It's a beautiful summery soft June day. My weather app predicted unseasonably cool temperatures today but it's really quite warm. Weather predictions are just guesses at this point. Who needs NOAA, right? We'll get what we get, weather-wise, and we won't get upset. 

Case in point: It was peak June grad party weather two hours ago when I started writing this and now it's cool, gray, and drizzling. But who cares. We're going to be inside in a restaurant, anyway. 

Two of my nephews, along with my older son, have June birthdays, so between birthday parties and grad parties, we've been spending at least one June weekend here every year for the last 25 years. June makes me nostalgic for grad parties and birthday parties and pool days, even as these events are happening. Nostalgia in advance, I suppose. 

*****

My sister's black lab is 13 now. I walk the silly boy every time I visit, and I'm pretty sure I'm his favorite non-resident human. His name is Duke. When I arrive at their house, Duke always greets me with great enthusiasm, and then heads directly to the closet where his leash is kept, tail wagging in happy anticipation. And I seldom disappoint him. 

Duke was sleeping when I arrived yesterday, and we were all having dinner when he woke up, and then it was dark and so we didn’t get to take a walk. He didn’t complain, but he shot me reproachful looks throughout the evening. I’m not angry, he seemed to say - I’m just terribly disappointed. 

But the sun came out for a bit on Sunday morning and we didn’t have to be anywhere until 1 PM, so I came downstairs and went right for the closet, and Duke was just beside himself with excitement. A walk! I will see stuff and smell stuff and stroll about the neighborhood as if I owned the place! Get me out there! Let’s go, Aunt Claire - let’s GOOOOO! 

My sister had warned me the night before that we wouldn’t get far. Duke has pretty bad arthritis and is worn out after a block or two. But the thing is that he doesn’t remember this from one walk to the next. I’m sure he feels the discomfort in his joints but I don’t think he makes a connection between that discomfort and the inability to go far when he’s out and about. Every walk is new to him. When he sits still for a moment waiting for a human to attach the leash, you can just tell that Duke is planning for the longest, sniffiest, best walk ever. 

We went two blocks before Duke started to lead me around the corner to head home, and although I could tell he was tired, he didn’t seem to mind. He enjoyed that short little 15-minute walk around his neighborhood as much as he’d have enjoyed a two-hour hike in the woods. It was his best walk ever, until his next walk. 

Isn’t he lucky? They age, dogs do, just like we do, but they don’t worry about it because they don’t know it’s coming. They don’t lament their lost youth because they don’t remember it. There’s always a treat in the offing, even if they just had a treat five minutes ago, because they don’t worry about their weight and they don’t know that their humans do worry about their weight. Every minute carries with it the possibility of a treat or a nice scratch or a rousing game of fetch or a nice long walk. Every walk is always going to be the best one ever. 

*****

We went to the party right on time. It was a sit-down luncheon in a private room in a very nice restaurant, with balloons and decorations in my nephew’s school colors and a graduation photo on a big poster board with Sharpies for everyone’s signatures and well wishes. The elegant setting and the cool rainy weather were probably better suited to an 80th birthday party than a high school graduation, but apparently, my nephew didn’t really want any kind of party at all, so this was a compromise. And it was lovely. 

My nephew is going to Temple University. I also went to Temple (though I graduated from UMUC) and I’m delighted that we’ll have another Owl in the family. I gave him $200 as a graduation gift, and told him to spend it on anything he wants. My sister-in-law, a sensible person, suggested that he deposit $100 in his savings and keep the other $100 to spend, which is a perfectly reasonable compromise. I’m like every other doting aunt - I hope he buys something nice for himself. 

This June party was very different from the sun-soaked lively outdoor parties of my children’s and older nephews’ childhoods, but it was memorable in its own way. Every summer party is the best one ever. 

Not quite beyond the Thunderdome

Maybe I should read just one book at a time. This is what I’m thinking as I make my way through Little Dorrit, with side forays into His Very Best (a biography of President Jimmy Carter) and Soetsu Yanagi’s The Beauty of Everyday Things. If I just stuck to one book at a time, I’d finish each one sooner. But I’d probably read the same number of books. Who knows.

*****

Well, you can tell that AI didn’t write that paragraph, right? My job involves writing, a lot of it, and so people ask me all the time if I use AI assistants. The answer is the most emphatic “no” (note that in conversation, it’s just a simple, polite “no,” and the emphasis is only in my mind). Once when I was working at home, with several Google Docs open in front of me, one of my sons said “Mom, maybe you should try ChatGPT.” I scoffed, “I don’t need ChatGPT. I AM ChatGPT.”  As I tell my friends, writing is one of the few things that I’m good at, and I’m not going to give it up to a robot. If I can’t be bothered to write something, then why should anyone bother to read it?

*****

But that’s probably the point, right? Who needs writers with their quirks and their obscure references and their goofy jokes, when AI can churn out all the flawless “content” you would ever need? And really, who needs to read in the first place? If you need instructions, ChatGPT and Gemini can read them to you. If you need news and updates, there’s the TV and the radio and online newsfeeds with audio and video content. If you want entertainment, you can stream it. It is not out of the realm of possibility to imagine a future - and not a distant, centuries from now future, but a future that most of us will be alive for - in which most people can neither read nor write. Imagine the public interest ad campaign: RIS - Reading is Superfluous. 

Full disclosure: I wake up in the morning waiting for the hammer to fall. The worst case scenario is my default setting. Keeping that in mind, feel free to take my predictions with huge crusty grains of salt. On the other hand,  think about it - people don’t memorize telephone numbers anymore - everything is stored in the electronic memory of our phones. Lots of people don’t know how to multiply or divide (or even add or subtract) large numbers. If you buy a coffee that costs $3.78, chances are that the cashier will not know how to count back change from a $20 bill. These are all things that most people could do just a few decades ago. It’s not unreasonable to think that reading and writing could become the next archaic skills. 

*****

You have probably seen this headline or some variation thereof: “Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei tells CNN's Anderson Cooper that "we do need to raise the alarm" on the rise of AI and how it could cause mass unemployment” (CNN.com). Anthropic, the company of which Mr. Amodei is the CEO, is an AI startup. Gosh, if only he had some kind of influence. If only he were in a position to, you know, DO SOMETHING about possible mass unemployment arising from the technology that he is making and selling. 

I saw a few seconds of an interview with this guy, who sat in front of a TV camera and claimed with a straight face that “This will affect me, too.” How, exactly? By “affect,” do you mean “benefit?” This man is 42 years old, with a PhD from Princeton. According to Beyonce’s internet, his net worth is $1.2 billion. Call me obtuse (and you would not be the first person to do so) but I can’t see how an established highly educated billionaire executive entrepreneur will be “affected” by AI displacing actual humans the way that a 23-year-old working class recent graduate - like my son and lots of his friends - will be “affected.” Dario Amodei made his money, God bless him, and he will be just fine. His family will be just fine. All of his friends in the Finance and Tech Billionaire Bro Club will be just fine. And we all know that that’s all that matters. 

*****

It’s not for nothing that Trump keeps reminiscing about the late 19th century, which he considers America’s “golden age.” Before the meddling progressive social reformers started interfering, ruthless rich men could exploit the poor and powerless with absolute impunity. The rules were made and enforced to keep most people poor and to allow the rich to grab and hoard as much as they possibly could. Trump and Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos and all of the other MAGA henchpeople would very much like to restore that system, and they’re doing a fine job. Their plan is coming together, and I pity the fool who thinks that Project 2025 and DOGE have anything to do with anything except turning America back into a vassal state. At least we got some libraries and parks and museums out of the last gang of robber barons. This krusty krew is giving us nothing except Twitter* memes and rocket ships full of pop stars and talk show hosts. 

*****

If you saw Sen Joni Ernst’s glib little “we’re all going to die” response to constituents who expressed worry about losing Medicare and Medicaid and then also saw her infamous non-apology filmed in a graveyard no less and you thought “Wow, she’s abysmally stupid,” then you might have missed the point. Even if she was the most brilliant political mind in America, she could still roll her eyes at her constituents at a 7:30 AM “town hall,” and mock their fears, and then dial the callous sarcasm up to 11 on TikTok, and her prospects for reelection would not be affected one tiny bit. Even if everyone in Iowa is furious at her, Sen. Ernst knows that she is accountable to no one except Donald Trump and Elon Musk (he’s not going anywhere and I’m not falling for his pretend outrage over the “Big Beautiful Bill”) and Stephen Miller and Russell Vought and maybe Mike Johnson. These are the people who are going to make it very difficult to unseat Republicans in future elections, and as long as Senator Ernst and her Republican colleagues vote the MAGA party line, then they can mock their constituents or ignore them altogether. They don’t even have to pretend to care about “the people” anymore. 

*****

This is all getting out of control, and by “this” I mean this rambling little blog post. It’s time to wrap it up. So I’ll finish where I started - with Dickens, Japanese pottery, and malaise. I’m almost finished with Little Dorrit. Mr. Dorrit’s fortunes, having reversed, are about to reverse again, and he won’t be the only one heading back to debtors’ prison, a thing that is due to make a comeback any day now. Meanwhile, Soetsu Yanagi was absolutely poetic on the subject of useful and beautiful artisanal objects, and blithely dismissive of the hopes and aspirations of the humble craftspeople who make them. And if we’d all listened to Jimmy Carter (and if he had picked anyone at all other than Paul Volcker as Fed Chairman) then we’d all probably be a lot better off today. Three books that have absolutely nothing to do with one another, and yet they are all strangely relevant to the Year of Our Lord 2025. Welcome to the Thunderdome. This place sucks. 

*****

*I know that Twitter is officially X now. But I’ll call it whatever I want.