Equinox

Cabin fever medicine; Deb Marshall photo

Equinox 

20 March: 10 degrees out at noon, and a brisk breeze has blown all the birdseed off the wart rail, onto the well-piled-up snowbanks below.  By 4 pm we’re in a heat-wave: 26 degrees in full sun. Happy Spring – Ha! The weather gods are continuing to have their sport with us. My personal theory is that the awfulness of the weather can be measured in direct proportion to the number of New Englanders traveling south in an attempt to flee the last throes of winter – the more that go, the worse the weather is, and it’ll serve them right if their cars are snowed- and iced-in at the airport when they get back at midnight. They will get no sympathy from me.

At least it doesn’t look like we’re going to get the fourth nor’-easter in three weeks that we’ve been threatened with for the past few days. Good thing, too, because if we had another foot or more of snow dumped on us again, a number of us are just going to go back to bed for the duration – wake us up around this time next month. Or maybe in May. As my mother once said, gazing sadly out the back door at the giant pile of snow covering her garden, “Well, it doesn’t look like that’s going to melt in time to plant anything this year.” 

There’s an old folktale I read about years ago that says that in the norther regions of New England, old folks who can’t face another cold winter lie down sometime in early December and go into deep hibernation. The younger folks wait ‘til the oldsters are stiff and cold, then pile ‘em up in the barn shed and cover ‘em with a tarp for the winter, just like fire wood. Come spring, they haul the bodies back out into the sun and sooner or later the old folks thaw out and get up and go do chores, no worse for wear, and more rested and cheerier than the rest of the population. 

Waiting for a reason to exist; Deb Marshall photo

Even though it’s pretty frosty out today– or, as a schoolmate of mine who grew up in the town I now live in used to say, “It’s chum chilly,” the sun has meandered closer enough to our small ball of flying dirt and water that the snow on the south side of the roof is melting even in the below-freezing temperatures. The moat between the house on the south side and the raised beds has opened up yet again, though the raised beds are again covered with feets of snow. Dirt, and Catmandoo rolling in it, can be seen if you look closely enough.

It’s impossible to get to the compost bins again without wading knee-high through the stuff, but the cold temperatures have tightened up the mudhole we call a driveway enough so that we can drive over and flatten out the highest ridges of snowy mud/muddy snow, and we haven’t lost a car into the icy depths of the driveway pond yet. The UPS fella has taken to leaving our deliveries at the neighbor’s house, even so, and I don’t blame him – I didn’t make it to town meetin’ this year because I was seriously afraid that if I went out again that evening, I’d be trying to extricate my car from the mudhole at midnight, in the dark. Lose hope, all ye who venture here.

My Christmas cactuses are setting buds again – my Christmas cactuses seem to bloom only on Hallowe’en and on Easter, and I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about that. Several of the orchids, which live in the west window of the dining room, far from the woodstove, are also setting buds. My calla lilies are producing some lovely large foliage, but there’s no sign of a flower bud this year. The Historian tells me he has a tomato plant about to blossom in his house, which is just fascinating, and will be even more so if it actually sets fruit. 

Window watchers - see the tall snowbanks in the background? Deb Marshall photo

We’re pretty much in full-blown cabin fever mode here. No one, two-legged or four-legged, is interested in eating anything I cook, and I’m not interested in cooking anything. Nothing we can find to watch on Netflix is interesting, and all books have lost their savor – I actually tossed one out today after reading only 150 pages of it. Sleeping has become a nightly battle – too cold, too hot, too cold, too hot, a constant removing and replacing and rearranging of bed clothes and blankets and not a lot of sleep happening. We snarl and hiss and bark at each other a lot, and at the office, I’ve managed to crack the giant window open an inch even though it’s too cold for it, because I just can’t bear to breathe stale winter air any longer. A few weeks ago, we were feeling pretty confident that the fire wood would take us through the end of the season; today, we’re not so sure. And the oil company just announced we’ve used a lot more of our prepaid oil than we’d contracted for.

And then there’s the news – best not to read it or listen to it unless you’re hoping for a shot of fiery adrenalin to wake you up out of the winter stupor. There hasn’t been another time in my lifetime when being a responsible citizen was so exhausting. Courage! Summer – and, we hope, some sort of sanity – will probably get here eventually.

For the blog alone, 20 March 2018: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com 

Winter menagerie; Deb Marshall photo

From the Edge of Darkness 12: Gun Gal 5, Abnormal

Trashcan, Charley Freiberg photo

 This is what’s wrong with the plans to reduce gun violence: it’s the use of that little word “reduce” that should be replaced with “end.”

 

This is what’s wrong with any plans to arm teachers: besides the obvious: if you arm a bunch of teachers, you’ll end up with teachers shooting students and other teachers, teachers being shot by students and other teachers and police, and teachers who discover they can’t actually shoot whoever’s shooting at them but endangering the police who would be able to deal with the shooter if there weren’t a bunch of armed civilians in the way. 

Besides that – what’s wrong with you people who suggest such a thing? Do you not remember being a kid? Do you really think an armed teacher is going to stop a kid who’s determined to shoot up a school – if that kid even considers the possibility of meeting a teacher who’s armed, which probably won’t cross their minds, picking off armed teachers when you’re planning to shoot as many of your fellow students as you can just adds to the insane thrill. Anyone – kid or adult – who goes hunting at schools isn’t worried about getting shot. They know they’re going to get shot. Police will come and shoot them. They aren’t weighing the possibility of personal danger when they decide to go hunting humans.  Get real. Arming teachers won’t solve the problem, and it compounds the problem of ending an on-going attack by putting weapons in the hands of even more civilians who shouldn’t have them and encouraging them to shoot at other civilians.

Stop shouting for a minute, rabid gun nuts, and let me remind you of a few things we’ve all known for a very long time: The threat of the death penalty or personal harm doesn’t stop people from committing acts of violence activated by passion, anger, religious fervor, fear, insanity, or the drive to make any kind of an emotion-driven political point.  The only people committing crimes who actually first consider the relative personal risks associated with the method and tools and weapons they might use during their crime are professional criminals. Professionals want to live to be bad another day, and they don’t shoot up schools, or churches, or concert goers, or movie patrons, or club patrons…  People who are shooting other people don’t care whether they live or die – if they think about it at all, they expect they’ll die in the process and have decided it’s worth it. If they’re kids shooting up other people, we know they don’t really understand the consequences, we know they don’t think it through carefully, we can expect that taking out a few armed teachers will simply mean to them that they’ve earned bigger points, better revenge, more glory. Arm teachers and you’ll make the problem worse.

This is what’s wrong with these plans: they make no sense except in a deranged fantasy world – a world in which school shootings are common, and the people in that world talk about reducing the violence, not ending it forever.

This is what’s wrong with people who say, it’s not the guns; who say, having and carrying guns is our right; who say, it’s our right to be able to defend ourselves and our loved ones; who say, the second amendment is a form of free speech. What’s wrong is – listen to yourselves, for heaven’s sake! 

We aren’t in the Wild West anymore – or, we weren’t, until you who have manipulated and bribed our politicians to create the opportunity for anyone to own and carry as many guns, as many kinds of guns, in as many places in public as possible, have made it so. You don’t have enemies from whom you need to protect yourselves 24/7. If you actually do, you need to make some serious life changes, starting with who you hang out with and how you’re interacting with them.  And if you don’t have real enemies, but you’re wasting money on more and more guns and carrying them around with you everywhere in order to scare the living daylights out of the rest of us, you’re either beset with paranoid delusions and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a gun, or you’ve become the person you imagine you’re protecting yourself from.

It isn’t normal to think you’re at risk of being shot at every time you go out in public. It isn’t normal to think you need to carry a firearm in public. It isn’t normal to believe you’re going to have to fend off a home invasion. It isn’t normal to think you need loaded firearms at the ready in your car and houses, in your places of work and your places of leisure. It isn’t normal to plan to shoot at fellow citizens, and it’s really, really not normal to be ready and willing to do so at any moment. 

We aren’t under attack from insidious enemies. We aren’t in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. We aren’t at war with our government, and if we were, your piddling guns wouldn’t do you any good against modern weapons of war, anyway. You aren’t a secret hero who will save the mindless masses from a sudden evil attack. You aren’t. You don’t need those guns you’re so fond of. And every time you go out of your house armed, you’re seriously offending the rest of us, and worse, you’ve become the enemy – you’ve become the insane person we need to fear. It isn’t normal to walk around armed.

This is what’s wrong with allowing unrestricted, liberal access to weapons and ammunition and  freedom to carry: It isn’t normal to encourage insane and dangerous behavior. It isn’t normal for people to carry guns in the grocery store, the restaurant, the movie theater. It isn’t normal to believe that the average Joe requires weapons to live and work safely. 

We’ve let a paranoid delusion become something we take seriously. We’ve let the inmates take over the psychiatric ward. And just one example is that we’re actually tolerating a discussion about arming teachers as a way to make schools safe for children. That we’re discussing it as if it were actually a reasonable suggestion. That we’re coddling our delusional fellow citizens and trying to live with and not judge their paranoid fantasy. That we haven’t wrested the discussion out of the hands of the deluded.

This is what’s wrong with this scenario: It is the guns. And it’s also the people who own the guns, hoard the guns, sell the guns, leave the guns lying around loaded, carry the guns in public. It takes a long time to cure mass delusion. It takes a lot less time to remove the guns.

This is what’s wrong with this scenario: If the NRA talking heads and its radicalized members aren’t controlled by its sensible, responsible members and the many responsible and still sane gun owners who aren’t NRA members, the rest of us are going to have to force the only real solution – an end to private gun ownership. You gun owners who aren’t scary and who aren’t deluded and who still live in the real world and are alarmed and offended by the insanity the gun nuts have perpetrated need to stand up now and loudly and actively become proponents of true and effective restrictions on gun ownership, sales, carry, and type of guns and gun gear that may be procured and by whom. Otherwise, you’ll have shot yourself in the foot, become hoist by your own petard. And the rest of us will have to force our politicians to turn their backs on all gun owners and do the ultimate, right thing.

And you NH Republican state legislators who refused this week  to hear gun control legislation on prohibiting people under 21 from buying weapons and banning bump stocks and devices like them: SHAME, SHAME, SHAME  on all of you! We are all Witnesses, and we won’t forget.

For the blog, 9 March 2018.

 

From the Edge of Darkness 11: Hater

Trashcan; Charley Freiberg photo

Confessions of a Hater

For a little more than a year, I find I really, really dislike a whole lot more stuff than I like. The stuff I dislike – despise – hate – gets longer and longer, every week:

I hate that I haven’t been able to read the news for more than a year because every single day there are at least three items that make me wildly angry.

I hate that politicians are so concerned about keeping their jobs that there are very few willing to do the right thing for the country.

I hate that we have a president who makes being a US citizen embarrassing.

I hate that we have a president who is a danger to us and the rest of the world.

I hate that our president is stupid, foolish, racist, misogynistic, an assaulter of women, cruel, boorish, egotistical, functionally illiterate, a multi-time bankrupt, insults our allies and praises our enemies, has no comprehension of diplomacy, is rude and pushy to other foreign leaders, panders to the worst tendencies of his followers, doesn’t understand politics or history, lies, lies some more, rarely speaks a truth – so rarely it’s impossible to tell when he actually is – acts like an out-of-control four-year-old, doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, can’t listen, wastes our money, is selling-out our nation to increase his personal wealth…and more.

I hate that news journalists keep interviewing administration spokespeople who don’t answer questions, lie about everything, and don’t even make a pretense of dealing in reality.

I hate that we don’t have the national balls to end gun violence.

I hate that corrupt adults make fun of children who are demanding a change in our laws about guns, dismiss them utterly, or accuse them of being pawns of hazy conspiracy promoters.

I hate the prevalence of conspiracy lies and the people who deal in such either to gain fame, make money, or otherwise foment disruption and scare people.

I hate that we’re losing our national heritage of wild and natural places.

I hate that we’re pretending that we aren’t destroying our environment.

I hate that most commercial food is no longer real food, tortures the animals who become our food, and is poison.

I hate that in 2018 we’re still a country of racist pigs.

I hate that in 2018 we’re still having to deal with men who prey on women as a gender right.

I hate that people are so afraid of each other that they feel they have to walk around armed.

I hate the stupidity of people who walk around armed and believe they’re under control of their weapons and know what they’re doing. 

I hate that rich people continue to speedily get richer, and poor people continually fall further and further behind, and yet we vote for and praise people who are promoting that scam, against our own best interests.

I hate that we don’t have universal health care, and that people who can’t afford decent health insurance are suffering – still.

I hate that so many rich people are fighting against any raise in the minimum wage – even to $15/hour, which in this day and age is barely on the edge of a living wage in some parts of the country, and in other parts of the country is still below practical poverty level.

I hate that so many people fear and hate any other people who look/live/worship/sound/love different from them, and that our mistake of a president has made those fearful haters feel justified and heroic in their fearful hate and the acting out of it.

I hate that at least once every day, in response to something going on in our national horror show, I say, “Thank God I didn’t have children; thank God I’m 61 and not 21.”

I hate the lack of compassion for others displayed by a majority of politicians.

I hate that those in charge, who don’t need to draw on state and federal aid programs, suspect a majority of those who do need to draw on those aid programs in order to survive of scamming the system.

I hate that there are so few politicians willing to do the right thing for the whole country – or the whole state- and that the others have sold their souls to the NRA or other corrupt entities that are trying to manipulate our political system to benefit themselves and their own narrow interests.

I hate that we never hear politicians say the words “compassion,” “honor,” “compromise,” or “justice,” nowadays – except in an ironic sort of way.

I hate that so many people believe the lies they’re being told.

I hate that so many lies are being told that journalists have to be our memories and arbiters of truth and falsehood, because there’s just too much for the average person to keep sorted without help.

I hate that there are so many people jailed for things that don’t merit jail time, and we refuse to fix it.

I hate that our president is trying to prove his false premises about illegal immigrants and others on the bodies and lives of decent human beings whose lives he’s making a living hell.

I hate that late-night comedians are the people we need to go to in order to hear rational thought.

I hate that so few politicians express strong disgust at the nasty things that happen in politics nowadays.

I hate that our president has made us a target of ridicule around the world.

I hate that our president has made us untrustworthy as an international partner.

I hate that we’re so blind to our own national deficiencies that we pretend we’re number one in all sorts of things – healthcare, education, civil rights, for example – when we’re actually far down the list of the best.

I hate that I worry that we’re living in the first throes of the end of our national experiment.

I hate that I no longer believe that most people – read that “politicians” – are actually trying their best to be good, humane, responsible, reasonable, honest people.

And that’s just a start. 

Yup, I’m a hater. And proud of it.

Printed in the Concord Monitor, March 7, 2018, as "Confessions of a Hater."

Spring is a State of Mind

Sure, Mom, whatever you say... Deb Marshall photo

 

Last day of February: I hear geese honking overhead. It’s 60 degrees in the Upper Valley; in White River Junction, you need to hunt hard to find snow. 

In my yard on the southern border of the Upper Valley, there’s no need to hunt – there’s still plenty of snow, but also some widening patches of bare ground, and my driveway – which is more like a short road – is a stew of deepening mud, deep giant pools of frigid water, and a lot of rotting ice covering one or the other and some hidden patches of really slippery ice. It’s early, but we seem to be in that time of year when we wonder: if we get the car out of the driveway, will we be able to get it back in? And if we don’t, will we lose our boots slogging down the drive through the muck to the house, and how are we going to get groceries in and trash out this year; and should we warn the UPS guy and the milkman, or let them take their chances?

There are eight bare-ground inches between the southern wall of the house and the snow that still well-covers the raised beds; Catmandoo can get into this dry moat from either end, and he’s been making the most of it. I can tell because his fur is full of sand and dried leaves and little twiggy detritus from all the rolling he’s been doing in the moat. He demanded that I fetch out his porch chair from the cellar, so he can properly lounge in the warming sun on the kitchen wart (as he watches the birds and wards off the gang of squirrels for which I put out bird lure), and now the chair goes in, and out, in, and out, almost as often as he does. When he’s out having a roll in the dirt, Biscuit Beastreau will try to steal his chair. The sun has gotten strong enough now that she gets overheated quickly and has to seek shade, usually before His Lordship returns from his dirt-bath and discovers an interloper in his chair and has to beat her up. Catman doesn’t share.

Around the full moon there’ve been a lot of noisy, after-midnight cat races going on in the downstairs while we’re trying to sleep upstairs. Today I picked up the internal remains of a mousie that one of the Furry People left neatly on the kitchen door rug after one evening spree. I hope that means there’s been an end to this winter’s pantry mouse.

In New London, there have been sightings of a three-bear gang wreaking havoc on bird feeders, but I’ve seen no signs of our bear, yet. It’s early, but it’s been warm, so I flip the wart light on and count to 10 at night before stepping out to look about before letting the Barkie Boy out, just in case. I know for a fact that the skunks are out doing their skunky mating dance; and in the past week, I’ve met a couple of dogs who’ve been anointed.  At least five times a night, I say sternly to Abu, “Don’t go greet any black and white kitties you might see out there.” I don’t know why I bother: he’s mostly deaf, but he reads my mind pretty well so I’m hoping he picks up “leave ‘kitties’ alone” and not, “ooh, kitties! – go sniff them!” 

Why I think a stern warning from me would make any difference is a mystery. The First Hound, who was an even bigger boy, towered above skunks, but he loved what he thought of as kitties, and whenever he saw one out near the compost bin he’d race over and put his snoot between their legs below their nice, fluffy tails, and lift them off their feet. The skunks would let loose with the defensive spray and get him  on his massive chest on the way down from their snoot ride. Then he’d happily come back in the house and once in, before the tell-tale stink registered in my brain, shake shake shake all over the stove and kitchen rug and walls and, usually, me. Did I learn to hitch him up when I let him out at night so he couldn’t reach the lovely black and white kitties? Not a chance. Do I hitch Abu up before I let him out at night during skunk mating season? Ha! Do I wonder why I’m being that stupid every single time I let him out at night? Absolutely. Does it change what I’m doing? Do you have to ask?

Second day of March: Oh boy, it’s wet out there. I can tell it’s at least pseudo-spring, though, because my first patient today cancelled his appointment this morning because he needed to boil sap. When you gotta boil, you gotta boil. Stomach bug vigorously going around has further reduced my patient load today, so I rescheduled the remaining patient and I’m home, avoiding working on the tax thing – oh, how I hate working on the tax thing! – by catching up on correspondence and writing a blog article that isn’t all politics and doom. Well, unless you count the mud in my driveway, which turns it into a pit that can suck you directly to hell.

Winter Prittithangs; Deb Marshall photo

Daytimes recently have been too warm to use the woodstove; some nights are, too. More and more often I find myself going to bed all bundled up in the winter flannels, and 30 minutes later starting to shed bits – first the jammie bottoms, then the jammie top, then the feet come out from under the blankets, then a blanket comes off. By morning I’m chilly again and trying to figure out where I flung all the flannel bits in my sleep so I can warm up and sleep another half hour.

Today’s storm hasn’t been too awful, so far, at least not over here  away from the coast; but the weather folks keep promising further horrors to come before midnight. I’m glad to be here at home, where I can look out and see the jays and chickadees and the little black birds snatching seeds off the wart railings, and the squirrels sneaking up to the far ends where they aren’t visible from the window. Every so often I’ll open the kitchen door just for the pleasure of watching the squirrel gang – sometimes as many as six at a time – race across the driveway, up the snow bank, and into the trees. One day I was treated to the sight of one of the squirrels finding its path up the snowbank to be too slippery, and it slid down over and over, all four feet paddling uselessly,  in what I imagine to be a total panic before it finally found a grip. Interesting as this is, neither of the Furry People nor the Barkie Boy try to chase the squirrels  anymore, but I can hear them laughing as the squirrels dash off. Then the two Furry People will get up onto the rail and plant themselves, barely moving, amidst the birdseed for awhile. The chickadees ignore them and just move to the far end of the rail. They know that by the time a Furry Person rises out of their sphinx-like reverie and skitters down the length of the rail, they’ll have had plenty of time to  grab the delicious seed and fly off.

The pile of seed catalogs has grown tall; I keep telling myself that if I finish the tax prep, I can reward myself by starting to peruse the summer garden possibilities. But you know – out my back window, past the pink prittithang and the last freesia in bloom, and the tall spires of calla lilies that poked through their pot this past week, it still looks like winter. Yes, it’s possible to get to the compost bin now without having to clamber over snow banks; and yes, the top third or more of the compost bins have emerged from the deep snow. But it’s still all white out there, and I’m still pretty sure we’ll have more snow, whether we want it or not. I won’t believe in spring yet until Mother Nature proves it.

What it really looks like outside; Charley Freiberg photo

I could be surprised! But I still remember that February thaw when we lived in Maine, that completely cleared the snow off the little protected garden next to my kitchen door, and thawed and warmed the dirt. I eagerly planted lettuce seed, thinking how much fun I’d have calling my family in NH and crowing about how I was eating fresh salad greens from my garden in February. Two days later, someone was laughing, but it wasn’t me, as the weather gods dumped more than a foot of snow back on top of my precious winter garden.

A taste of yum: take a bite of a cube of smoked cheese and some candied ginger together – you’ll think that summer has arrived, for a moment!

 For the blog alone, 2 March 2018.