BOLD AND FEARLESS

Someone complained. “How come people aren’t up in arms about Scrotus and his attack on the press? Why aren’t people crazy about this?”

I think maybe I got just a little bit crazy hearing that. What exactly are we supposed to be doing that we aren’t already doing? There I was thinking we were doing more than a little bit to keep our bit of resistance happening. Then I hear we don’t care enough because … what? Are we supposed to be building battlements in the roads?

It’s February 2017.  There are going to be at least four years of Scrotus or one of his lackeys up there in The Big Office. He isn’t going to “go away.” If, by some small miracle, he does go away — and I would not count on it — one of his people will take over for him. There won’t be a victory in our immediate future, no matter how much objecting we do. If we blow ourselves up now, where will we be in another year? Two years? Three years?

We’ve got elections coming in 2018. I recommend you people who are so eager for us to be climbing the battlements get busy finding candidates to run for office. As of today, we’re a bunch of angry, frustrated people who hate what’s happening. If we want to be more, we need a party. We need people. We need candidates. We need to be able to show we are better.

Right now, we can’t do that.

This is going to be a long run and what’s going on now is merely the beginning. It will be difficult. Expect to be frustrated as we watch newspapers and television stations try to do what they were better at 50 years ago. You’ve ignored newspapers and other news for years. Now, you want them to stand up and be Walter Cronkite? It can happen, but it’s going to take a while. By the way, are you subscribing to a newspaper? No? Have you considered it? You want news to be powerful? Buy a newspaper. Also, read it. Just saying.


As a side note, am I the only one noticing that Trump is getting old really fast? Even with all the makeup, he looks exhausted. We may wonder how we’ll survive him, but I wonder if he will survive us. The man looks like he is going to explode.


Are we upset? Are you kidding? Seriously?

Of course we’re upset. Garry didn’t work more than 50 years in news to see this. But that being said, we all have personal lives. We have kids, friends, and dogs. We have blogs. We make art. Write stories. Many of us have health problems and some of us are just plain cranky and getting old.

I plan to live through the next few years and come out the other side. Alive. Able to get out and vote.

Garry and his friends all worked for a lot of years in news. All of them are retired. They can do a lot of stuff including being funny. Writing. Talking. Reasoning. Arguing. Contending. Discussing. What they won’t be is out there. On the streets. Marching. Other people are going to have to do that.

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TIME FOR KIDS TO STOP BEING KIDS

This is fair, isn’t it?

It’s a young world and these are terrible, but exciting times. If youth wants this to be their time, they’ll have to make it so. The world goes around and comes around. All the kids who’ve been complaining how we had all the good times, all those marches and all that excitement? Welcome to the exciting world. Go out and fight. Your time has come.

Go forth young ones. Be bold. Fearless. It’s won’t be easy. If you don’t get what you want quickly, you’ll have to get it other way. The long, slow way. There’s a lot of work to do.

I have faith in you.

ARE WE DOING PRODUCT ADVERTISEMENTS?

You aren’t kidding? This isn’t a joke? Because QUICKEN | THE DAILY POST is not supposed to be an advertising ploy for some other company. I’m more than slightly perturbed by this. I hope this is a one-off, not something likely to continue because there are an awful lot of advertising links in this world.

This is so out-of-character, I’m at a loss to say how I feel about it.

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Is it because we are nearing the time when we — as in regular citizens of the U.S. of A. — pay our taxes? Of course, I mean those of us who still actually pay taxes by which I do not mean our president who has spurned taxes in favor of government loopholes.

No, I mean the rest of us clowns, many of whom could really use a few of those loopholes.

Garry and I have always paid taxes and in giant lumps when we were both working. I sometimes got frustrated with it because I imagined how much we could have used that money for other things. Mostly, I got it. Taxes are the price you pay to live in a world that takes care of people who don’t have your job or money. I want to live in that world, be a part of it.

I used Quicken or a product like it during the years when I needed a way to make sure the numbers in my accounting was something like the numbers the bank had. Then I used it when I was in business for myself and I needed something to manage invoices … and again during the few remaining years when the bank didn’t have the same software.

Now, just about every bank from the most local to the biggest in the world has everything. I don’t need a separate application to prepare taxes. I’m not planning a retirement: I’m in it. It’s a bit late to decide what to do now.

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QUICKEN? Yes! Look it up. Maybe those of us who use it will get a special discount?

I can’t help but wonder why WordPress would choose a this specific word which is connected with a particular application known for use with taxes.

It seems odd, maybe even fishy. Don’t you think? I mean, it’s not like “band-aid,” which is a product so ubiquitous it has become generic through use … or even Coke, which has done much the same thing. This is a unique product with special uses for this season, the season we Americans call “tax time.” I would not like to think this is … gasp … an advertisement!

As for me, nope. I don’t use it.  Along with a few million other people. I’m pretty sure whatever else we do around the WordPress corral, advertisements are not it.

UP, UP AND AWAY!

Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Looking Up at Things


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Up up and away! That’s what Superman always said before he leapt into the air and flew into the blue. I do not have a current picture of Supe. I really wish I did. We shall have to settle for other things.

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Living where we do, we have pretty much no air traffic. There are no airports without 50 miles of this town.

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If you see a plane going overhead, you have to figure it’s probably a military aircraft moving from one base to another … or one of the funny planes that go up dragging a special flag that says “DARLING, PLEASE MARRY ME!”

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I always wonder how many women see that and run screaming. Just saying.

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CENTER OF THE CABINET

Last night, I spent hours looking for something which was where it was supposed to be. On the correct shelf. In front. Right in the center of the shelf. Nothing was hiding it. It wasn’t behind something or turned the wrong way.

I looked there and couldn’t see it. I looked in all the other places it might possibly be. There’s a cupboard in the kitchen and a rack in the other bathroom. Otherwise, it’s one or the other of my medicine cabinets.

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I searched the kitchen thoroughly , in the process finding and tossing out several bottles and tubes of prehistoric stuff — at least a decade old. I did not find what I was looking for.

Finally, I began to question if the container for which I was looking even existed. I was sure I’d bought two bottles of this stuff. It’s not expensive, so I would normally buy a couple and stash a spare. But maybe I only thought I’d bought a spare. Maybe there was only one.

Before tucking myself into bed, I made one last pass. There it was. In the center of the cabinet. Exactly where I had looked at least three times in the past hour.

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Despite my tendency to blame it on the dogs or on supernatural wee people, I suspected my eyes had been blind to the container. In its bright yellow box. In bed, I told Garry I had just spent nearly an hour looking for something that was where it was supposed to be and where I had looked several times.

He was sympathetic. “Yes,” he said, “it happens.”

Maybe it really is those pesky, wee brownies, fairies, and pixies messing with me? You think?

CENTER | THE DAILY POST

HOVERING O’ER THE SOUP – A TINY BIT OF FICTION

My bowl of chicken soup was sitting on the kitchen table. It had been quite a while since I heated it. It was probably barely tepid by this point. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going near that soup.

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I had decided soup and toast would make a pleasant little lunch, so although this wasn’t “really” soup, I threw it together. Added whatever veggies I found in the fridge. Toasted an English muffin. Added a little butter.

Now, it had been sitting on the table for … well … a rather long time. I was still hungry and I could (in theory) reheat it. Again. If it had ever contained anything beyond artificial flavoring and salt, heating it one final time would finish it off anyway.

It was no longer a concern of mine. I had moved on to other things.

I was strongly disinclined to eat the soup. I didn’t even want to look at it. Near where the bowl was waiting on the table, I could see my sodden bathing suit, wrapped in its wet beach towel. I had promised I’d wash it out soon. Except, I couldn’t.

It was the grin. I could deal with everything else, but that grin made my skin crawl. Or maybe it was the long white teeth.

Up in the air, a toothy cat’s grin was suspended in the air of my kitchen and it was hovering above the soup. The Cheshire Cat had returned. He had come back to my kitchen.

He wanted my soup.

OLD FRIENDS – BY ELLIN CURLEY

There’s something very special about old friends.

As we get older, there are also different degrees of ‘old’. I have friends from when my children were young, 30 years ago and friends from when I was young, more than 60 years ago. My husband has known Marilyn Armstrong since he was a freshman in college. In 1975, Tom and his ex wife actually lived for a while with Marilyn and her then husband. That creates lasting bonds that are like no others.

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My current group of local close friends have only known me as a retired empty nester. So it’s comforting to talk to people who knew me when I was a newly married career woman, or as an energetic full-time Mom with young kids.

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Tom and Garry

Then there’s Wendy. She represents a whole other, unique category of old friends. We were best friends from 5th grade into 7th grade. We had that special bond that only 9-12 year old girls can have. We did everything together. We slept over at each other’s homes almost every weekend when we were in New York City for school.

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We spent time at my weekend/summer home in Easton, Connecticut, where I now live. We hung out at her ‘country’ house, first in a neighboring town in Connecticut and then on a tiny island on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. (Very cool! She still owns the island and goes there regularly).

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We intimately knew each other’s parents and in my case, grandparents too. We reveled in each other’s pets – we both had birds. We named our birds after characters in Peter Pan (Wendy/Peter Pan). Her parakeet was Petey and my canary was Tinkerbell.

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We were friendly through high school. In junior high, we moved onto other best friends and different circles of friends. We lost touch after high school. Totally. We didn’t have any contact at all until I called her after our 40th high school reunion. We talked on the phone a few times and then lost touch again for another ten years.

This past year, as our 50th class reunion approaches, we reconnected on Facebook. This time our connection has blossomed into a real friendship. We have talked on the phone for a half hour to an hour every week for the past few months. We both look forward to our conversations. We have moved past catching up and reminiscing. We have filled each other in on the basics of our careers, marriages and children.

We each have a child with serious health issues. We’ve talked about books, friends, hobbies and politics. We both suffer from Donald Trump’s PTSD.

We’ve come to realize that we’re similar in many ways and simpatico on other levels, too. We would not continue our relationship if that were not the case. We might have become close if we had just met for the first time. But there is something so special about talking with someone who knew my first dog, remembers my parents as ‘young people.’ Who remembers writing ‘novels’ together as pre-teens using manual typewriters with carbon paper — and no self-correcting features.

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I believe we know each other – the essence of who we are – in a way that almost no one else can. It would have been nice if we had stayed in touch through all the intervening years. Apparently it wasn’t necessary. There’s just something about the friendship we had in those formative, innocent years in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. That ‘something’ has survived for 50 years and is creating a modern-day friendship which is more fun, deeper and more meaningful than either of us could have imagined.

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I’m surprised but thrilled that Wendy has become such a wonderful addition to my life. I talk to her more and on a different level than I talk to the old friends I have stayed in contact with. I cherish the bond we’ve created and I look forward to watching it deepen over time.

We are meeting in person next week for the first time since 1967. Although we live two hours apart, we hope we can continue meeting in person as well as texting, emailing and talking on the phone. I think we give new meaning to the phrase ‘old friends.’