For the second day of 2026, I’m sharing something from Bonnie Raitt, "Will the Sun Ever Shine Again". It’s pensive and sad, but what I take from it is that not only do I need to look for the sign, I need to make the sign.
That’s my resolution for this year.
©2026 Bas Bleu
Given what a complete load of shite 2025 was, let’s start out the new year with robins.
I walked into my living room Tuesday afternoon (after
finishing yesterday’s
post on notable deaths of the year) to see two robins drinking from the
birdbath. There were more of them in the trees and on the ground. (It’s been my
observation that robins, like nuns, never travel alone; in fact, if you see
one, it generally means that there’s a squadron of them nearby.)
We’ve had some cold weather in the past couple of days, so
they may have had difficulty finding unfrozen water, but my birdbath is heated.
(No, it’s not like a hot tub; it just keeps the contents from freezing.) So it
may have been their best source in the neighborhood.
There were so many drinking, I had to replenish the water
mid-afternoon.
And I was entranced watching them.
Let’s hope this is a harbinger for 2026.
©2026 Bas Bleu
Death had a good year these past 12 months; I mean a really good year. Here are a few of the notable people who joined its ranks.
In
January, Jean-Marie
Le Pen finally took his vile, racist self to the underworld, although the his
daughter Marine is carrying on his work in France. No indication of cause of
death; my guess is that at age 96, the excess of bile finally did its work.
Filmmaker
David Lynch, 78, died of cardiac arrest. He left a wide range of artistic
achievements as his legacy—from Eraserhead and The Elephant Man
to Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart and Dune. There’s also the
entire Twin Peaks franchise. Damn fine cherry pie.
Folk Icon Peter Yarrow died of bladder cancer, age 86. As one third of Peter, Paul and Mary, Yarrow provided the background music for millions of boomers and probably gen X-ers; they were everywhere, including at protests—for civil rights, against the Vietnam War. I could give you a thousand songs that PP&M made their own, but let’s have “Puff, The Magic Dragon”, which Yarrow wrote.
Baseball
fans said farewell to Bob Uecker, 90, who’d been facing down small-cell
lung cancer for two years. Uecker played catcher before he spent 54 years calling
the Milwaukee Brewers’ games on radio. Even I heard him a couple of times.
Dame
Joan Plowright, 95, took a final curtain call. No cause given. Her
career in stage and screen was long and distinguished. Among her
accomplishments was her ability to stay married to Laurence Olivier for nearly
30 years, until his death in 1981. I only knew her in her later performances,
but let me just say that no one could deliver the line, “Well, really!”
like Plowright.
Cecile
Richards, 67, succumbed
to glioblastoma in January. She had a long career in labor organizing, activism
for reproductive protection and women’s rights. Exactly as you’d expect from
the daughter of Ann Richards.
More
music drifted out of the world when Marianne Faithfull died at age 78;
she’d been facing multiple health issues. How she managed to get such power out
of that seemingly little voice, I do not know, but here’s
an example.
In
February, novelist Tom
Robbins, 92, died. I’ve got to admit, I never read any of his works, but he
was big and influential when I was in college. I mean—his books were
everywhere.
The
circumstances of the deaths of actor Gene Hackman, 95, and his wife,
artist Betsy Arakawa, 65, struck me as horrifying. Hackman died from
heart disease and his wife from hantavirus, but they were isolated from their
neighbors and from each other (Hackman was also suffering from dementia). I don’t
like to think about their dog.
Roberta Flack was another of the music strains of my youth. She died at 88 from ALS, a cruel end to someone who brought joy to so many with her talent. Let’s think of her “Killing Me Softly” instead.
One
of my personal heroes also died this year—Joseph Wambagh, 88, from
esophageal cancer. I wrote one of only two fan letters in my life to him (the
other was to Ken Ringle, of The Washington Post), after reading The
Glitter Dome. That guy could write a sentence like Reginald
Hill—rip you up at one end and console your grief at the other.
In
March, politician Alan
Simpson died at 93. He served as senator from Wyoming for nearly 20 years.
As Republicans go, he was about middle-of-the-road in his sanctimonious
sourness.
The
chess world lost a grand champion in Boris Spassky, who died aged 88. If
you didn’t live through the Cold War, his importance might not strike you, but
the West competed with the Soviets in everything, and his match against US
master Bobby Fischer in Iceland in 1972 reverberated throughout the world,
largely due to Fischer’s antics. Spassky’s loss put him in the Soviet doghouse.
He recovered his mojo a year later, fell in love, married and moved to Paris. He
played Fischer again, in 1992, in Yugoslavia. He lost again, but he displayed much
more grace and generosity than Fischer ever did.
Sports
writer John Feinstein died of an apparent heart attack; he was 69. I
used to listen to his weekly segments on NPR’s Morning Edition; he had a
joyous way of talking about all manner of sports that made me almost want to
follow some of them.
Boxer
and entrepreneur George Foreman died at 76; no cause given. I confess, I’m
not much of a boxing fan, but Foreman was certainly good at it—two heavyweight championships
and an Olympic gold medal. I really like his grill, though.
Sixties
heartthrob and king of the miniseries Richard Chamberlain died from
complications of a stroke. He was 90. As an actor, he didn’t have what you
might call range, but his good looks and mellifluous voice took him a long way.
I got a kick out of seeing him as recurring character Archie Leach on the TV
show Leverage, where his charm played well into the plots.
Actor
Val Kilmer’s was the first death recorded in April. He died of
pneumonia at age 65. A life-long Christian Scientist, he had been diagnosed
with throat cancer 10 years ago; he struggled with how to approach that,
eventually undergoing chemotherapy and surgeries. As an actor, Kilmer was
splashy and testosterone-infused; I’m thinking his Doc Holliday in Tombstone
and Iceman in Top Gun, but he could also do quirky and goofy (Real
Genius, Top Secret!). And, of course—Batman. My guilty secret
is his whirlwind performance in The Saint. And he’ll always be my
Huckleberry.
Former
cardinal Theodore McCarrick died at 94; dunno the cause, but he lived way
too long. He was dismissed and laicized by Pope Francis in 2018—finally—after years
of reports of sexual misconduct, at least throughout his tenure as Archbishop
of Washington, D.C. Man, the Roman Catholic Church has a problem the with the
breadth and stench of the Augean Stables.
Actor
and writer Jean Marsh died from complications from dementia; she was 90.
We in the US were first introduced to her in the 1970s British TV import Upstairs,
Downstairs, which she co-created, also appearing as the housemaid Rose
Buck. Basically a finite (although quite lengthy) soap opera, U-D told the
stories of the skivvies and footman with as much attention as those of the
snoots and toffs. It was quite the concept. Marsh went on to a long career on
the stage, in front of the camera and on the page. She suffered a stroke in
2011, which effectively ended her career.
You
may not know the name Jay North, but he played comic strip child terror
Dennis the Menace in the eponymous TV series in the 1960s. His career didn’t
transition to adulthood, and in fact he revealed years later that his aunt
physically and verbally abused him during his Dennis run, so it’s really not
surprising. Later in life he worked with another former child star, Paul
Petersen, in an organization supporting children in show business. He died from
colorectal cancer, age 74.
Game
show host Wink Martindale died of lymphoma at 91. He had a career as a
disc jockey and radio host before he moved to TV, but honestly—he had the
perfect face to host game shows. Kind of bland, but big, toothy smile.
Pope
Francis, the first Jesuit
and Latin American to hold the Holy See, was 88. Francis was an absolute game
changer at the Vatican, and precisely was the Church needed after both John
Paul II and Benedict XVI. When you consider what strength of will it takes to
turn a ship weighted down with calcified cardinals and centuries of Machiavellian
operations, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. He died of stroke, just
a few hours after suffering a visit from JD Vance.
Virginia
Giuffre, 41, committed
suicide at her home in Australia. She was one of the most outspoken victims of
sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein, and it cost her dearly. One of the perpetrators
she called out, in addition to Epstein, was the Andrew Windsor-Mountbatten
formerly known as prince. That caused some upset in the king’s brother’s life,
but nothing like what Giuffre suffered.
May saw the death of Ruth Buzzi, 88,
from Alzheimer’s Disease. An actor, singer and comedian, she was one of the anchors
of the TV variety show Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, from 1968 to 1973. That
show was so funny, I used to try to write down some of the jokes to tell my
boss at my after-school job in the Children’s Room of the Pasadena Public
Library. But a lot of Buzzi’s comedy was physical, so you had to watch it. Her
standard character was the frumpy spinster Gladys Ormphby; here she is paired
with the dirty old man, played by Arte Johnson.
Former
Associate Justice of the Supreme Court David Souter was probably
relieved to leave the earthly bench, after watching the shenanigans of the
Roberts SCOTUS for the past five years. Sad and disgusted, but relieved he didn’t
have to see further perversion of the Constitution by rightwing hacks. Souter
was appointed by Bush 42; he voted with the moderate wing, when there was still
such a thing. He was 85 at time of death; no cause was given.
Closing
credits also ran on screenwriter and director Robert Benton, 92. Benton co-wrote
Bonnie and Clyde in 1967; wrote and directed Kramer vs. Kramer in
1979; and wrote Places in the Heart in 1984. These are such
extraordinarily different films; they demonstrate Benton’s storytelling range.
(Of course—he also wrote 1970’s What’s Up, Doc?, so no one’s perfect.)
No cause was given for his death, but he was 92, so…
TV
barfly George Wendt, 76, placed his last order, due to cardiac arrest
with underlying causes. But by that time, he’d carved an entire career on being
one of the smart-assed regulars at Cheers, the bar where everyone knows
your name. In fact, millions and millions of people knew his name.
If
you live outside the Virginia 11th Congressional District or aren’t
a political wonk, you may not know the name Gerry Connolly, who died at
age 75. He was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in November 2024, immediately
after being re-elected to his eighth term in Congress. At the time, he
announced that he’d stay in office while undergoing treatment. In April, he
updated his constituents to say that the cancer was (essentially) winning, so
he wouldn’t run for re-election again in 2027. A month later, he was dead,
leaving the district unrepresented until Republican governor Fleecevest finally
called a special election for September. I got no squawk with how Connolly represented
us while he was alive; he was an effective machine politician and his views
mostly aligned with mine. What absolutely eats my lunch is him acting like his
office was an entitlement so that he literally died in it rather than give it
up. We bloody need term limits.
Speaking
of machine politicians, Charles Wrangel (D-NY) represented Harlem in
Congress for 46 years. He was an original member of the Congressional Black
Caucus and served on the (once) powerful Ways & Means Committee (among
others). He was censured over ethics issues in 2010 for things that Republicans
now consider perks of the job. He retired in 2018.
Actress
Loretta Swit died (no cause given) at 87. She probably never got past
her casting as Major Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan on the TV series M*A*S*H,
which ran from 1972 to 1983. Over the course of the series, the writers and
producers humanized her character, but it must have been hard to play a caricature
for as long as she did. Fun fact: In 1981, Swit played the role of Detective
Christine Cagney in the pilot for the breakthrough female cop buddies series
Cagney & Lacey. But the ongoing role eventually went to Sharen Gless, due
to Swit’s contractual obligations to M*A*S*H. An animal rights activist,
she was a vegetarian for a long time before going vegan in 1981.
In June, rock musician, songwriter
and producer Sly Stone died, age 82, from COPD. He was critical to the
development of psychedelic, soul and funk. He was front man for Sly and the
Family Stone from the late 60s to early 70s, but the band fell apart partly due
to Stone’s erratic behavior. He went solo, joined with some other groups, got
arrested for cocaine possession; he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of
Fame in 1993. There are a lot of Stone’s hits I could play for you, but I’m
going with “Everyday People” because…the message is appropriate for right now.
Novelist
Frederick Forsyth died in June as well. He was 96; no cause given. His
breakout book, The Day of the Jackal, was literally one of those books
you have to read in one sitting because you can’t stand not to know what
happens on the next page. Forsyth came to writing after working as a
journalist. His Conservative Party affiliations did not in any respect get in
the way of telling a ripping good story; Queen Elizabeth II appointed him CBE
in 1997.
As part of an alleged political assassination, Minnesota
state representative Melissa Hortman, 55, and her husband Mark, 58, were fatally
shot in their home. Their golden retriever Gilbert was also killed in the attack by a
RWNJ who also shot (but not killed) fellow Democrat John Hoffman and his wife
Yvette in their home in front of their young daughter. The alleged murderer was
captured while outside his fourth Democratic target’s house. He is being
charged in state court, but you can bet that there’ll be a presidential pardon
waiting at the end of his trial, if convicted. Doing the lord’s work, you know.
Beach
Boy frontman, songwriter and producer Brian Wilson died from respiratory
arrest (with underlying causes) at 82. Like Flack; Faithfull, Peter Paul and
Mary; and Stone, the Beach Boys formed the soundtrack of my childhood and
youth. Wilson struggled with mental illness and periodically had to pull away
from Beach Boy concerts. In the 1980s he went solo; his work has influenced
many pop movements, including the California sound, psychedelia, progressive
and punk. I’m giving you the iconic “Good Vibrations”, from 1966 to remember
him by.
Seventies
teenage heartthrob Bobby Sherman died of kidney cancer. He was 81. TBH,
I can’t recall a single one of his pop hits, just his run as one of the three
brothers running a sawmill in nineteenth century Seattle on the TV show Here
Come the Brides. None of the principals would give Olivier competition, but
they were mostly easy on the eye.
Bill
Moyers died from
complications of prostate cancer at age 91. He served LBJ as White House Press
Secretary and then Chief of Staff, bookending those stints as a journalist. He
was in the Walter Cronkite mode of steady observer and trusted reporter; he played
a critical role in the founding of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting,
which—as of time of writing—seems to be our last best hope of journalistic
integrity. Moyers’ career went from cub reporter at age 16 to hosting a
podcast; he was all about informing us.
Composer
Lalo Schifrin, 93, died from pneumonia. The general public probably
knows him best for his film and TV scores. If you’ve seen any of the Mission:
Impossible franchises, that theme music is his. Born in Argentina, his
music basically made him a global phenomenon.
Grifter,
charlatan and hypocrite Jimmy Swaggert was unconscious for 17 days from
a heart attack before cardiac arrest finally took him out. I’m surprised there
was an actual heart involved, considering the way the TV evangelist swindled
thousands of his flock out of millions of dollars while he frolicked with
prostitutes and consorted with terrorist-adjacent organizations. He was 90. I
cannot imagine what God was thinking letting him live so long; perhaps it was
to keep him at a distance.
And
here we are in July, when singer and actress Connie Francis died
from pneumonia at 87. One of the best-selling music artists in history, her
career ran off the rails during the 70s and 80s, after a rape attack at
knifepoint, but she worked courageously to regain it, performing from 1989
until her retirement in 2018. That woman had a set of pipes—have a listen of “Who’s
Sorry Now?”
Malcolm-Jamal
Warner drowned while on
vacation in Costa Rica; he was 54. Perhaps best known as Theo, the son in the
80s-90s sitcom, The Cosby Show, he pretty much grew up in front of the American
audience (which was huge); he also turned his hand to directing, music and
poetry. I very much enjoyed him in the recurring role of a lieutenant of the
LAPD Special Investigations Section on Major Crimes. It was kind of hard
not to see him as Theo, but he was a fine actor, and 54 is too young.
Hulk
Hogan took his last
body slam at 71. Interestingly, he apparently had a heart, because the cause of
death was heart attack. Possibly related to decades of assisted musculature.
Chuck
Mangione—man, I just
can’t. No cause given, age 84. He was the soundtrack for my college years.
Listen to “Chase the Clouds Away”.
Heavy
metal pioneer Ozzy Osbourne also died, age 76, from a heart attack. Co-founder
and lead vocalist of Black Sabbath, he was known as the Prince of Darkness and
famous for biting the head off a bat an audience member had tossed on stage
during a performance in 1982. Osbourne made it through that career and launched
a 21st Century offshoot as a reality TV star, with his wife Joan
shepherding him through it all.
Songwriter
and satirist Tom Lehrer died at age 97; no cause given. Lehrer’s heyday
in the pop world peaked in the 50s and 60s. I only knew about him in an
ancillary fashion, because my parents weren’t on the intellectual left of the
spectrum, and I was more of a Stan Freburg girl. But I came to enjoy him when
his songs popped up as retro in my adulthood. As an example, his homage to Wernher
von Braun is one of those evergreen observations, and particularly apt in our
current climate of politicians, businessmen and some scientists going along to
get along.
Ah,
Loni Anderson. Her receptionist in the sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati anchored
the show, which ran from 1978 to 1982. She was known after WKRP largely for her
relationship with Burt Reynolds, but I also remember her for the detective show
Partners in Crime, with her and Linda Carter playing the two ex-wives of a dead
private eye who take over his business. They were great together. Cause of
death was metastatic uterine leiomyosarcoma; she was 79.
Terrence
Stamp died (no cause
given) at age 87. He burst onto the American film scene as the angelic sailor in
1962’s Billy Budd; he followed that up with The Collector, which I saw
as a kid, and I shouldn’t have. He played archvillain General Zod in two of the
Superman films in the 70s; then as a crossdressing entertainer roving the
Outback in The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. (A sequel
to Priscilla is to be released soon.) His range was phenomenal.
Astronaut
Jim Lovell was 97 when he died. Lovell commanded the Apollo 13 mission
that might have ended in disaster in 1970. Lovell’s training as a Navy test
pilot may have had something to do with his sang froid. He flew several Gemini
and Apollo missions before 13, but none after. After retirement from the Navy,
he spent years as a telecoms exec and then ran a restaurant in Chicago.
In
September, we lost First
Nations actor Graham Greene, after “a lengthy illness”. He was 73. He
was nominated for a best supporting Oscar for Dances with Wolves, and
his career extended from 1976 to this year. As far as I’m concerned, he
absolutely stole Thunderheart from Val Kilmer.
You
may not know the name Joseph McNeil, but at age 17 he was one of the
four Black students whose 1960 sit-in at a Greensboro, N.C., Woolworth’s lunch
counter in defiance of the establishment’s “Whites Only” policy set off a
firestorm. It took them six months of returning every day before the dime store
agreed to serve them. Their perseverance reinvigorated the Civil Rights
movement and reverberated around the country. After graduating in 1963, he
served in the Air Force and later worked in finance and as a safety official with
the FAA. He died from Parkinson’s disease at age 83.
Entitled
white nationalist christofascist Charlie Kirk died at age 31. Cause was
a high-powered rifle shot fired while he was on one of his public grifts at a
college campus in Utah. His widow Erika is carrying on for him, sharing her
grief with anyone who will listen, with special attention to JD Vance, whom she
has endorsed for president in 2028.
Actress
Claudia Cardinale died at age 87. One of the quintessential sex symbols
of the 60s, she made more than 175 movies, mostly in Italy and France; genres
spanned comedy, drama, spaghetti westerns and historical epics. She worked with
directors like Werner Herzog, Sergio Leone and Federico Fellini.
Actor,
writer, director, producer, environmentalist, activist and icon Robert
Redford died at age 89; no cause given. I don’t even know what to say, except
that he and Paul Newman must be livening things up in Heaven.
In
October, primatologist and
anthropologist Jane Goodall died from cardiac arrest. She was 91. Before
she even finished her academic training, Goodall’s research among chimpanzees
demonstrated that they share many key traits with humans, including using
tools, having complex emotions, creating lasting social bonds, engaging in
organized warfare and passing on knowledge across generations. From that
starting point, she continued researching, observing and informing and was
still working at her death.
Public
radio pioneer Susan Stamberg died at age 81; no cause given. She was the
first woman to anchor a national nightly news program (“All Things Considered”)
and considered one of the “founding mothers” of NPR. When you heard her voice
coming out of your radio, you both perked up and settled in for a story you
knew was going to be both informative and personal. She interviewed everyone,
from Rosa Parks to Dave Brubeck. I gotta say that I did not cotton to her
mother-in-law’s recipe for cranberry relish, but I was down with everything
else. Stamberg retired from NPR in September, a month before her death.
Actress
Diane Keaton died at age 79 from pneumonia after a career that started
in 1968 and continued until last year. The Godfather and its sequels would not
have had the impact they did without her performance as Kay Adams. She was
pivotal to many Woody Allen films (I’m not a fan; I may be the only person in
the United States to not see Annie Hall) and handled both drama and
comedy with aplomb. Starting with Annie Hall, Keaton also developed a unique
fashion look, which drew heavily from thrift stores. On her, it all looked fab.
Quintessential
50s and 60s TV mom June Lockhart died at 100. From the Lassie
family to the Lost in Space Robinson family, Lockhart knew best. Later
on, she was the local doctor on Petticoat Junction. Earlier, she was in some
classic films, including Meet Me in St. Louis and Sergeant York.
In
November, Pauline
Collins died at age 85; she had been suffering from Parkinson’s disease.
Collins originated the role of Shirley Valentine—a middle-aged working-class
housewife who narrates her life before and after a seismic holiday—on stage and
later played it in the film. Her career spanned films and TV, as well as
theatre, for 60 years, from 1957. If you have not seen Quartet, directed
by Dustin Hoffman and also starring Maggie Smith, Michael Gambon, Tom Courtnay
and Billy Connolly, find it and watch it.
Rightwing
politician Dick Cheney finally, finally died. He was 84 and cause is
listed as cardiac arrest with underlying cardiac and vascular issues. Whether
it was as Wyoming’s sole Representative, as SecDef under Bush 41 or vice
president to Bush 43, Cheney worked assiduously for the military-industrial
complex that Eisenhower warned us against, ensuring that companies like
Halliburton never suffered a lean year when it was possible to send our sons
and daughters to die somewhere. I expect he’s having quite the chin-wag with
Kissinger in Hell.
Jamaican
musician and songwriter Jimmy Cliff died at age 81; no cause given.
Cliff mastered the genres of ska, rocksteady, reggae and soul. You need to hear
his “Many Rivers to Cross”, because it’s so timely.
Jamil
Abdullah Al-Amin died in federal prison from cancer at age 82. You might know
him as H. Rap Brown, civil rights leader, Muslim cleric, Student
Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) organizer and Black Panther Party
minister of justice. He was serving a life sentence for murder following the
shooting of two Fulton County, Ga., sheriff’s deputies in 2000. A long way from
SNCC.
Playwright
and screenwriter Tom Stoppard died at 88; no cause given. Starting with Rosencrantz
and Guildenstern Are Dead (1966), he explored ideas and emotions, probing
his own family history, for nearly 60 years. Some of his screenplays include Empire
of the Sun (a masterpiece), Brazil and Shakespeare in Love. I’m
sorry I didn’t get to see Leopoldstadt when it came to a local theatre—based
on his own family history, it looked like it would be powerful, which a friend
who did see it confirmed.
And
in December, one of the giants of 20th Century architecture
died at age 96; cause of death for Frank Gehry was respiratory illness. You
can look at his Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao or the Walt Disney Concert Hall in
LA for examples of his aesthetic. In addition to buildings, he designed
furniture, jewelry, liquor bottles and other products.
Jo
Ann Allen Boyce died at
84 from pancreatic cancer. In 1956, she and 11 other Black children broke the
segregation barrier by entering a high school in Clinton, Tenn. The kind of
courage it took to do that is unimaginable. President Eisenhower sent in the
National Guard to protect them from whites, an entirely different type of
deployment from what we’re seeing now. The threats were so bad that at the end
of the school year, Boyce’s family moved to Los Angeles to get away from them.
She had a long career as a pediatric nurse. The high school she integrated was
destroyed by a bomb in 1958 and rebuilt two years later.
The
deaths of actor, writer, director, producer, activist and mensch Rob Reiner, 78,
and his wife, photographer Michelle Singer, 68, are fresh enough in our
memory. They were murdered and one of their children has been charged with the crime. All I
need to say is that their memory is a blessing.
Journalist
Peter Arnett died age 91. A consummate reporter, Arnett covered
everything from the Vietnam War (where he won a 1966 Pulitzer Prize), through
the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan to the Gulf War, where his reporting from
Bagdad for CNN captured the world’s attention. After retirement from field
reporting, he taught journalism in China.
Betty
Reid Soskin, once the
oldest US Park Ranger, died at 104; no cause given, but she was 104. Her career—actually,
her whole life—was an expression of curiosity, joy and determination. In her
youth, she founded Reid’s Records in Berkeley, Calif., dated Jackie Robinson
and was a bag lady for the Black Panthers, among other things. She worked in a
Jim Crow segregated union hall in Richmond, Calif., in WWII, experienced
redlining when trying to buy her first house in Berkeley and lived in a
racially hostile Walnut Creek. Experiences like these formed the core of the
stories she told visitors to the Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National
Historical Park (in Richmond) for the 15 years she worked there. She retired in
2022 from the Park Service, after having suffered a stroke on the job in 2019.
Brigitte
Bardot, the sexpot of
the 50s, died at age 91; no cause given. Bardot’s free-spirited and uninhibited
sexuality upset a whole lot of people for a number of years. Then, as she moved
into animal activism and, lately, right-wing causes, she upset a whole
different set of people.
As
of time of writing, the last notable death for 2025 is that of Khaleda Zia,
Bangladesh’s first female prime minister. She was 79. Zia had a long career in
Bangladeshi politics; she served as prime minister from 2001 to 2006.
And,
crap…one more: Tatiana Schlossberg, environmental journalist and
daughter of Caroline Kennedy, died yesterday at 35. Cause was a rare mutation
of leukemia, which was only diagnosed last year, after the birth of her
daughter. That daughter and her two-year-old brother are among the survivors.
Reader—this
is a lot of death, and I’m sure I missed a bunch. It took me two days straight to compile this. As noted at the top, the
scythe harvested a bumper crop, and yet not the one to which we most look
forward. On to 2026.
©2025 Bas Bleu
Well, this is interesting. I was moving some photos of vanity plates I took last week into the vanity plate folder when Office told me there was already a file with the same name and asked me what to do about it. This one:
I took the photo last Tuesday in the Whole Foods parking lot, along with this one, because
I thought having the further public vehicular declaration put the license
message in context:
I give these files the names that are on the plates, so I
know what to choose when I go trawling for posts. Otherwise the folder would be
277 items with the datestamps given when my mobile phone takes the pictures. The
fact that there was a file in the folder labeled “move mtn” meant that this car
is likely to be local to the People’s Republic, and I shot it some time ago. So I checked.
What’s interesting (to me) is that this is the photo I shot in October had a license frame, which is not there now.
©2025 Bas Bleu
Welp, we’re rounding the corner on the end of 2025, and I confess, it’s been such a nationally self-inflicted shitshow that I’m truly grateful to see it edging into the rearview mirror.
But it has not been an unrelieved shitshow, for which I am
also grateful.
Neighbors all across the country stood up and stood
together to protest and document the crimes of our home-grown Gestapo as they
violently kidnaped other neighbors who were going about the business of being
neighbors: going to work, taking their kids to school, getting groceries, keeping
immigration appointments. In addition to protesting and documenting, the
neighbors stepped up to bring food and encouragement to those afraid to leave
their homes.
Millions of people around the country (and, indeed, around
the world) came out multiple times to name the evil and protest it. Bless every
one of them—the numbers and the expression of power sent shivers all the way up
to the Oval Office, penetrating even that brain fog.
Federal judges across the country issued rulings against
the administration’s multifront lawlessness, one after the other. Illegal
firings, illegal deployment of National Guard troops, illegal operations,
illegal vindictive prosecutions, illegal appointments. In an era when
congressional Republicans couldn’t even summon the energy to flap their hands
as the Kleptocrat encroached on legislative powers, the justice boots on the
ground stood up for the Constitution and the people. Profound thanks to them
and most of the appellate judges, as well.
(SCOTUS, of course, is another matter. We need to expand
the court, institute term limits and write some enforceable standards for
malfeasance and impeachment.)
Despite (illegal) threats of withholding federal funds if
New York City elected the candidate not anointed by the Rotting Orange, New
Yorkers overwhelmingly flipped him the bird and voted for Zohran Mamdani as mayor.
The electorate in Virginia also swept Democrat Abigail Spanberger into the
gubernatorial office, where she’ll have to devote some time to burning sage to
rid the Capitol of the Youngkin foulness. I’m grateful one of those votes for
her was mine, along with the Democrat slate for lieutenant governor and
attorney general. Ditto to New Jersey.
In short—Republicans are getting nervous, and I’m glad of
that. They sowed their fields; time to reap.
I’m grateful for the Fairfax County Public Library, and for
other government services that, you know, serve. (Does it come as a shock that
government doesn’t work like a business, because it’s not?) At the other end, I
give thanks for the EU for levying fines on US tech companies for violating
their laws, causing government tools like Marco Rubio and JD Vance to splutter
about how it’s time for the EU to break up and return power to the individual
states. Watching those performances was priceless.
(Talk about having ideas above your station.)
Closer to home, I’m grateful for my friends who gave me
support throughout the year and graciously accepted my support for them. I’m
grateful for the kindness shown me, even when I was crabby; for the generosity
and encouragement. I’m thankful for my yoga instructor; for my sidewalk-salting
neighbor; for the owner of the local Viet-French restaurant, who recognizes me
when I walk in; for the dog walkers I encounter in the mornings.
And, of course, I’m grateful for the show that Nature puts
on for me every single day, without fail.
These are the things that got me through this year and give me hope for the next one.
©2025 Bas Bleu
It’s St. Stephen’s Day, or Boxing Day, or the 26th of December, so let’s have Eva Cassidy; I’ve chosen her acoustic take on “Wade in the Water”.
“Wade in the Water” is a jubilee song, an African American
spiritual originating in slavery and collected and sung by the Fisk University
Jubilee Singers in the early years of the 20th Century. A lot
of those songs were about getting through terrible times by holding out hope
for deliverance and salvation.
Not sure, but the first time I heard it might have been
Bernice Johnson Reagon, founder of Sweet Honey in the Rock, singing it in a
class she taught at American University. And here’s that amazing
group singing it, if you’re interested.
Cassidy’s warm, powerful and steady voice is what I need today, reminding me that—even when the waters are choppy—we need to wade in. Maybe because they're choppy we need to do that.
©2025 Bas Bleu
For the culmination of Advent, I’m going back to the beginning. To Isaiah, which to my mind has some of the most beautiful language in the entire Bible. People like their Psalms, but give me that old prophet any time.
Isaiah contributed 20 verses to Georg Friedrich Handel’s Messiah,
and I have to tell you that singing those words to that music is a
transformative experience.
I’m not giving you any of the blockbusters for today,
though. I’ve been thinking a lot about the prophesy that the coming of Christ
would bring about huge changes in the world we know—a leveling and a smoothing
as we are all equal under the Lord.
Sounds bizarre, I know, what with our government currently
going to great lengths to show us that we are a Christian nation, which
exercises supreme power by doing the exact opposite of what Jesus of Nazareth
preached, taught and lived.
But that’s what Isaiah 40:4-5 tells us. And that verse is
the entirety of today’s entry, “Ev’ry Valley”.
Here's the Cambridge Choir with tenor Allan Clayton performing it.
Peace out, everyone.
©2025 Bas Bleu
I confess I have a love-meh relationship with “Silent Night”. In the US, it’s the über Christmas carol, closing out just about every holiday concert from grade school to master chorales. I feel oversaturated with it.
But it’s ubiquitous for a reason: its simplicity gets to
the heart of the Nativity—an ordinary, quiet night, a new couple make do for
accommodation with stable animals, but the birth of the Messiah. A few
straightforward verses, three-quarter time, you can play it on any instrument
around and even little children can master it. (-Ish.) It’s been translated
into probably every language on the planet as a gateway to the whole story; I’ve
certainly learned it in every language I’ve studied.
I’m giving you the Spanish version, sung by Andrea Bocelli, because it does feel appropriate for this particular Christmas Eve, when people all over the US are being rounded up and tossed in prison (citizen or not) for the crime of speaking Spanish. Reenacting the persecutions of Herod—so on-brand.
©2025 Bas Bleu
Today’s Advent piece originated with plainsong back in the mists of Christianity, so: Latin. The opening lines of “Rorate Caeli” translate to “Drop down dew, ye heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain the just. Let the earth be opened and send forth a Saviour.”
The chant featured in regular Advent services devoted to
Mary, known as the Rorate Mass. I don’t recall ever having attended one (they
were weekday/Saturday masses, and kinda got sidelined during the Second Vatican
Council), but I would like to. They used to be held in the early morning, which
seems to me to be a good way to start out a workday during Advent.
In the Anglican tradition, the opening lines translate to
“Drop down, ye heavens from above, and let the skies pour down righteousness.”
I believe we could use some of that these days.
This version is by Maîtrise Notre Dame de Paris, which is a music school in Paris.
©2025 Bas Bleu
Unlike the fir, the holly and the ivy, the citrus is decidedly not evergreen. (TBH, ivy is actually bloody near indestructible. Come Armageddon, it will indubitably rule with cockroaches over the blasted hellscape that planet Earth becomes.) As I discovered earlier this year when the February freezes torched my three potted citrus trees, despite me wrapping the bases in bubble wrap.
So, this Spring I bought three new trees—a lime and two lemons. I fortified them against the scourge of rampaging chipmunks, but knew I needed to do something about Winter.
When my neighbors moved to Seattle, I liberated their
three very large pots (no pix, sorry) and repotted two of the trees; my
gardenia in a larger container than the trees has weathered about seven
winters, so… But around the end of October, I began looking for reinforcement
solutions. I could move the smaller pot indoors, but not the larger two.
I mentioned this to a friend in the UK, and she had a
suggestion:
Friend: What about garden fleece—would that work?
Me: Garden fl—wut?
But, dear reader—garden fleece is indeed a thing; I
ordered some online and then draped it double-strength around both, using clothespins
to secure it. I also brought back the chicken wire enclosure for one of them,
because I saw Scooter
the chipmunk sizing it up.
We’ve had quite the range of temperatures in the past
couple of weeks—from high 50s to the teens—but so far, it looks like my little
trees are surviving. One has some frostburned leaves, but most of it seems healthy.
(The indoor one started flowering after I brought it
inside. I mentioned that to my English friend, all happy about getting lemons,
and she asked, “How about pollination?” Me: “Pollin—wut?” So, as per online
wisdom, I hand-pollinated, and I may get a few lemons.)
This is my gratitude for today. It’s so hard to grow
anything in my backyard, because the only time it gets any sun is after all the
deciduous trees have lost their leaves. I’m filled with joy by these three
potted pals, and by the reminder that we can withstand some big things, when we
have help.
I can find no Christmas songs about citrus, but here’s one about
the apple tree. The text for “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” dates from the 18th Century,
a poem probably written by a “Calvinist Baptist” (later known as “Methodist”)
preacher, Richard Hutchins. It’s been set to music by several composers,
including the ubiquitous John Rutter.
Using the metaphor of the apple tree for Christ may
reference the creation story in Genesis, or it could reflect New Testament
depictions of Jesus as the Tree of Life. Then there’s the pre-Christian British
custom of going out among fruit orchards around the Winter Solstice to offer
(and drink) libations to awaken the trees for their Spring duties.
(I wrote before about this custom in a post
about wassail, which got merged into Christmas, as things often do.)
I personally love the image, especially in the dead of
Winter, and doubly-especially in this ghastly year. We need to remember
that—despite our best human efforts to the contrary—nature will do her best to
bounce back, and life will triumph over death.
Besides, apples make great pies.
The lyrics are so powerful that I think it worthwhile to
set them out for you:
The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green;
The trees of nature fruitless be,
Compared with Christ the Apple Tree.
His beauty doth all things excel,
By faith I know but ne'er can tell
The glory which I now can see,
In Jesus Christ the Appletree.
For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought;
I missed of all but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the Appletree.
I'm weary with my former toil -
Here I will sit and rest awhile,
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the Appletree.
With great delight I’ll make my stay,
There’s none shall fright my soul away;
Among the sons of men I see
There’s none like Christ the Appletree.
I’ll sit and eat this fruit divine,
It cheers my heart like spirit’al wine;
And now this fruit is sweet to me,
That grows on Christ the Appletree.
This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the Appletree.
I am eschewing Rutter and giving you a version set to music
by Elizabeth Poston, a 20th-Century English composer. Here it’s
performed by a group called Seraphic Fire.
©2025 Bas Bleu
