It’s Sunday, and I’m driving back from my daughter’s through the deepening fog of the Berkshire Mountains, through bouts of torrential rain that I’m trying to outrace. All along the way, groups of soggy motorcyclists huddle under overpasses, braced for the splatter of our speeding cars. I surf the radio waves for something to keep me awake. For a while, its NPR (more about that another time). I finally settle for country/western.
I grew up with country/western music — Kitty Wells, Patsy Cline, Hank Williams…., an aunt who sang and yodelled, neighborhood guys who had a band. They taught me to play three chords, which was all I needed to play every Everly Brothers’ song. And Webb Pierce’s There Stands the Glass, which was sort of my college drinking anthem.
It’s Sunday, and I’m driving through driving rain listening to a countdown of the current top ten country songs. The lyrics are filled homey stories and homely stories and horny stories — all too human stories.
It’s just a high maintenance woman
Don’t want no maintenance man.
Lives and loves lost and found — you can’t have country music without those kinds of stories.
I’ve had my moments, days in the sun
Moments I was second to none
Moments when I knew I did what I thought I couldn’t do
Like that plane ride coming home from the war
That summer my son was born
And memories like a coat so warm
A cold wind can’t get through
Lookin’ at me now you might not know it
But I’ve had my moments
and
I told her way up yonder past the caution light
There’s a little country store with an old Coke sign
You gotta stop in and ask Miss Bell for some of her sweet tea
Then a left will take you to the interstate
But a right will bring you right back here to me
And, of course, you can’t have country without beer and smoke and a hot horny guy:
everytime you take a sip
in this smoky atmosphere
you press that bottle to your lips
and i wish i was your beer
and in the small there of your back
your jeans are playing peek a boo
id like to see the other half
of your butterfly tattoo
I have to say that I was disappointed that I didn’t hear any female singers in the top ten.
And so I switched back to NPR. Stay tuned.

[On Mondays, if he’s so inclined, my non-blogger friend MYRLN will be a guest poster on this weblog.]

TB? So what??

As one who years ago lost both parents to tuberculosis, a mother at age 5 (after being taken protectively from home to live elsewhere with relatives at age 3) and a father at age 14, the current matter of one Andrew Speaker, carrier of a drug-resistant hence particularly deadly form of t.b., strikes a deep chord. And it evokes a powerful reaction: the man is an insensitive, unthinking, uncaring bastard. He is a symbol of that growing class of people in this country — those with economic ease — who think the only ones who matter in the world are themselves. Everyone else can go get screwed.

Knowing he is infected and hence infectious, having been advised against such travel, he says “Screw it,” and goes on a globetrotting honeymoon. Then afterwards claims he didn’t think it was a problem. Of course not, thinking so would have necessitated considering others: like his new wife, and fellow passengers on the planes he used, and the help and other travelers at hotels where he stayed, restaurants where he ate, and so on. Oh no, he was going to enjoy HIMSELF and screw everyone else.

About being flagged in Italy and told to give himself up to authorities, he says he thought to himself, “You’re nuts. I wasn’t going to do that.” Of course not. It would have spoiled his fun.

Speaker is a personal injury lawyer — one of those kind you see t.v. ads about — and is now thinking like a lawyer, saying: 1) he wasn’t advised not to travel, 2) was told he should wear a mask, 3) thought it was all okay, 4) didn’t know it was a problem. Take your choice. (And bet your life on it: his personal doctors have been in conference with their lawyers.) Speaker’s only aim is to cover his butt one way or another, truth be damned. His actions displayed and continue to display his lack of concern for anyone else along with his ignorance of the epidemic that ripped the Eastern seaboard of this country in the 1930s and ’40s and killed thousands of people, like a 5-year old’s mother and a 14-year old’s father; of how people coughed and choked and spat blood and had no recourse but to stay home and die, or go to work (to sustain some income, however little) and thus infect others, or go to sanitoria like at Saranac Lake and die in last-ditch surgeries to cut away infected lung tissue. Not that such knowledge would have made any difference to him. He is of the privileged class. The world exists solely to serve him. (And his Daddy, also a lawyer, says it’s all the media’s fault for blowing the danger all out of proportion. Another ignoramus.)

The failure of government entities to short-circuit his gallivanting is no surprise: think 9/11,think Katrina, think Iraq.

And irony of ironies which would be funny if the situation weren’t so serious, his new wife’s father works at the CDC as a tuberculosis scientist.

What should be done with Speaker? Once upon a time, we could’ve taken him out to the nearest tree and strung him up. But even if it were still possible, that would make things easy for him. The best punishment would be to keep him in government quarantine but give him NO treatment whatsoever. Let him experience the suffering and pain and ultimate ugly death he so recklessly risked on others.

Undoubtedly, he would gasp at the end, “It wasn’t my fault.”

And this, in a recent MYRLN email, which I post here because I agree:

Watching her interviewed today by Wolf Blitzer only increased my admiration of Elizabeth Edwards. She’s smart, articulate, forthright, warm, and real. I’d take her as Prez candidate. And she makes Sen. Hypocrita Clinton look like what she truly is: fake, stiff, unreal, and unbelievable. I’d pay to see the two of them debate.

Sometimes a poem magically captures what you are feeling, not in the details but in its essence. Every day, Jim Culleny of No Utopia sends out a poem — sometimes his, usually others’.
Today’s poem:

I have been a avid reader as long as I can remember. I’ve been an avid writer as long as I can remember. I could spend my life reading and writing.
But that’s not my life these days, although I have finished my college friend’s book Gatekeeper (see sidebar). Actually, my responses to the book were very much like those in the review published in the Miami Herlad — except for my taking bureaucratic acronyms for granted. I worked for twenty years in a state bureaucracy, and I was as guilty as anyone of making frequent use those short-cuts names.
From that review:

Sullivan’s interesting account of the agency’s early years also reflects the country’s post-World War II atmosphere in the wake of the anti-Communist, anti-gay witch hunt by the late Sen. Joe McCarthy of Wisconsin. At that time, he writes, “the CIA’s polygraph program focused on detecting Communists and homosexuals. Early tests had more questions dealing with Communism than any other issue, but the homosexuality issue was pursued equally vigorously.”

Among the turf wars within the CIA in which Sullivan became entangled was one battle with the Cuban Operations Group, due ”in large part because none of its [Cuban] agents could pass their polygraph tests.” The group’s chief complained to the examiners that not all ”our agents can be bad” and ”you are doing bad tests.” Unfortunately, writes Sullivan, the “Cuban [exile] assets, with rare exceptions, were all bad.”

But in another widely shared opinion among U.S. officials, Sullivan writes that “of all the intelligence services against whom I worked, I found the DGI [Cuban intelligence] one of the best, second only to the East German Stasi. The only reason I put the DGI second is because the Stasi had much more manpower and was better funded. With limited resources, the DGI was very effective in neutralizing our efforts to penetrate them and identifying our agents.”

Sullivan concedes there are ”many questions about the validity and reliability of polygraph” and concludes that “polygraph is much more effective in determining that a person is being deceptive than it is in verifying that a person has been or is being honest.”

John Sullivan considers a successful polygraph examiner’s skill to result from being able to approach the process as both art and science. His moral and ethical foundations come through clearly as he chronicles his struggles to pursue the truth in an agency characterized by escalating politicization, internal and external turf wars and a steadily growing bureaucracy, all of which diminished the Agency’s capacity to carry out its mission
Of course, the book held an added interest for me, since I knew John Sullivan in college, although he was one of those who was a serious student and became one of our class leaders. But I would have never thought he would wind up in the CIA. Then, again, I never would have thought I’d end up taking care of my mother.
I have been trying to get out of here for a few days to visit my daughter, but thanks to my sibling, I have had to postpone it twice. I intend to get away on Friday if I have to sneak out while the other two are asleep.
My spending just about every waking minute with my mother is just not a fair burden on me. We need help, and my mom’s gerontologist has suggested that we contact Hospice and go that route. She also suggested that I might want to move out and let my sibling take over, since he end-runs every effort I make to lighten my load. Compromise is something my family or origin never figured out how to do.
Meanwhile, I’m still writing here, and I want to let all of you know who emailed me or left encouraging comments that I much appreciate your reminders that writers, write; that inspiration ebbs and flows; that so many other bloggers continue to go through the same cycles. And my stats show that people are finding this blog — most because I came up on a search engine for some topic they were looking for, but enough return visitors to reassure me that my writing is being read.
Here it is, after midnight, again, and I’m still at the keyboard. Yes. Writers write.

OMG! Oh my god!!
Everybody uses it — Internet acronym or full-blown verbal exclamation. Everyone knows what it means and no one thinks twice about it.
Ya’ think?
Uh. Uh.
My almost-five grandson, who tends to get verbosely excited by the damnedest things, came out with an enthusiastic Oh my god! the other day and was chastised by one of his peers (who is the son of a minister).
Now, to my grandson, whose parents are pretty much agnostic if not atheist, “god” has no meaning except as part of an expression of surprise — as it does for many of us.
But for another many (e.g. religious and fundamentalist) “God” means something specific. Not “god” but “God.” I suppose it has something to do with the commandment to not take the name of the lord in vain. However, “God” is not his name; rather it’s just a designation. “God” might have the name of Apollo, or Zeus, or Allah, or Yahweh. “God” is a generic term, not a name.
But in this era of either/or, black/white, believer/heathen, saved/damned, there is almost no tolerance of the part of religious people for the beliefs (or non-beliefs) of the rest of us.
Are they going to teach their kids to correct anyone who says “god-awful” or “god, that hurts?” I suppose we can always replace the “god” with “goddess.” But that extra syllable sort of lessens the impact of a spondee like “god damn!”
I guess the battle to teach Creationism as something other than a widespread cultural myth was just the beginning. Now they’re going to “clean up” our language to their specifications. OMG! Just let them try!!
What will they try to “clean up” next? Let this poem by Billy Collins serve as a warning.

As coincidence would have it, I am in the middle of reading a book I somehow missed back in the 70s: Good News by Edward Abbey.
On the back cover is this statement:
With this boldly satirical imaginary world, Edward Abbey asks us to look around and take stock of what we value before it’s too late.
Good advice for these times as well.

I’m starting a new tradition here, MYRLN Mondays. I have, on occasion, quoted emails from him that I wish I had written. He has agreed, when he’s got something to say, to let me post it here. Always on a Monday.
I have known him for more almost 50 years. He is a friend. He is part of my family. I appreciate his being willing to let me use his thoughts, his words, his passions, to give some variety to this weblog.
So, heeeerre’s MYRLN‘s first Monday:

CAN YOU SAY NUCLEAR?

The greatest real danger to our country is not terrorism, as our current lords and masters would have us believe. The greatest danger is stupidity: the stupidity rampant among those in power and the current and future stupidity promised by the gross failure of our schooling systems.

Why do schools fail so miserably at getting the best out of our kids? Aside from the idiocies imposed from above the actual teaching level, it’s because schools are preoccupied with stuffing things into our kids. And that makes all the difference in the world. The heart of educating someone is not a matter of how much you can stuff in but of how much you can draw out. That’s the root meaning of education: “educe: to draw out.” Getting kids to open up, to find out what their interests and passions are, to learn what angle to use to get them individually excited about learning — those need to be the first steps to education, to “drawing out.” Get there first, and then teaching the subject matter — the reading, writing, ‘rithmetic, and sciences — can begin because you will have learned how best to offer them to each student. And will we then get the nice, uniform results we seem to so passionately crave? Sorry, no. Uniformity isn’t the goal, either.

Each student we open up to their own capabilities, interests, passions, dreams will take their learning in their self-determined direction. They will live their lives in their own manner, using what they’ve learned to achieve that. That’s the ultimate goal of education.

Oh…too hard? Too idealistic? Tough. That’s our job. Learning is the goal, not indoctrination. And unfortunately, the latter is the real objective of the testing-based methodology that forms the basis for what’s called education today. Indoctrination. Let’s make our kids good, subservient cogs in our economic machines. To hell with what interests them, what revs their engines and generates a real thirst for learning, That’s not what we’re after. We need machine parts. And truly-educated people make lousy machine parts. They can think and judge and act independently.

And they can pronounce nuclear.

This is a place of wild things.
In the three acres of woods in which I live these days, I am delighted when some of these wild things find me. It was racoons, the other night. Last week some kind of raptor careened past my window and landed in a tree too far away for me to see. Deer, of course, come by regularly. I have hung sacks of dried coyote urine on the trees near my plantings (blueberry bushes, tomato plants) in hopes that they will not void my harvests. The skink, who lives somewhere between the concrete walkway and the 2 X 4 that edges it, is back. Or maybe it’s last year’s offspring. Even wild things have families and homes.
Today, as I sat on the screened breezeway contemplating the wildness of things everywhere but inside me, I thought I saw a rock move in my rock garden. Yes, it was moving, ignoring the nearby squirrels and chipmunks and various bird species who were so busy gorging themselves on fallen seeds that they never noticed their pseudo-rock intruder.

This was the first turtle I’ve ever seen on our property. Maybe it was on its way to the lake, but, if so, it still had a long way to go. Maybe it had wandered over here from the little pond over on the next road. If so, it had come a long way already.
I have no idea what turtles eat. Bugs, I supposed; but I brought some shredded lettuce out anyway. And a dish full of water. It had stopped in a pile of dead leaves, to rest perhaps. I got down on the ground and looked into its tiny eyes, watched is miniscule mouth for some sign, thinking about that old 40s romantic drama, The Voice of the Turtle:

…The Voice of the Turtle (1943) charmingly reminds us, spring time stills brings flowers and the romantic notions of young lovers who engage in the rituals of courtship. And a simple love story can still resonate and provide entertainment and uplift for our distracted time. As the well-read romantic lead states, in quoting from the rhapsodic Song of Solomon in the Bible, “The voice of the turtle (as in turtledove) is heard in our land.” Spring, romance and a sort of spiritual rebirth all arrive for the two lonely protagonists during the course of this play.

If I kiss the turtle, will he turn into a prince who will rescue me? Or at least a snazzy male senior citizen who loves to dance? Ummm. I didn’t have the nerve to try.
Since seeing the turtle, I’ve done some googling to try to find out what kind of turtle it is, with it’s black skin etched with red lines and spots. No luck.
I did, however, find reminders of the power of the turtle as a totem animal:
Turtle is the keeper of doors
Turtle teaches tenacity. They have walked on the earth for millions of years. While other species have come and gone in that time, Turtles are still here, alive, well, and going about their lives.
Turtle is our Earth Mother, and through this energy we learn to be caring and nurturing.
Turtle shows up in our lives when we need to go into shell and wait until our thoughts & ideas are ready to be expressed. He also teaches us to be adaptable to our environment so we can find the harmony within it.
When I finally crawl into bed tonight, I will focus my thoughts on the turtle who stopped by for a visit today. I will dream the ancient voice of the Turtle.

Once upon a time there were things called seasons. One of them was spring when the temps would hover in the 60s and 70s and the air was fresh and touched with the smell of new growth (tho’ pollen-laden as well). It was a time of release between the hard cold of winter and the smothering heat of summer. It was a nice time. Too bad we don’t have it any more.
Today we’re under a 15 county air stagnation alert (it’s MAY!) for ozone, with temps going to near if not to 90-92. (It’s MAY!)
Spring was nice when we had seasons.
(from an email by non-blogger myrln)

There was a time when I couldn’t even imagine not being a blogger. My identity as such has been both something that distinguishes me in the eyes of real world friends and family and also something that has given me friends and family whom I’ve never met in person.

But all things have life cycles, and it’s possible that this blog is nearing its own end.

Life goes on for billions of people who have never bothered with a blog.

A blog should end when you have nothing more to say.

The essentials of life continue here on the mountain, blog or no blog. Everything changes. Nothing changes.
Maybe I just need a vacation. From blogging. From the essentials.

Or maybe I need to remember how to be a poet in the real world.

We thought it was the bear who is rumored to come through these woods every once in a while.
The bird feeder we hung from a tree was ripped down, clawed, and thrown several yards away. The pole on which the other two bird feeders hang was pushed to lean precariously to the left. Some of my potted plants were turned over or pawed through. After two mornings of waking up to the devastation, we positioned a light to shine on the area at night, removed the bird feeders, and waited for some telltale noises.
No bear. But three racoons — large, middle sized, and small. They circled the spots where the feeders should have been, snuffling the ground for some leftover seeds. I didn’t know that racoons eat birdseed. Within a few minutes, they gave up and plodded away, probably over to our neighbor’s who had reported the other day that his garbage bin was toppled over and the contents strewn all over his yard.
So we bungee corded the garbage bin we left out for collection.
Now, we take the feeders in at night and put them out in the morning. I don’t mind the squirrels and the chipmunks vying with the birds for the fallen seeds. At least they don’t wreak havoc in the process.
That’s what we get for excitement here on the mountain. Except, of course, for my mother’s “episodes,” which leave us frustrated and exhausted as she moans unconsolably, overwhelmed by the aches of her body and spirit.
“I’m dying,” she whispers, licking her dry lips, panting and reaching out. Within a half-hour, she’s up and wandering around yelling “You’re trying to kill me,” as we do try to get her to take her prescribed meds. “Shit,” she says. “Go to hell!” she says, this woman who never used any kind of profanity in all of her life — until now.
“This IS hell,” I think to myself.
I would trade lives with those racoons in a minute.