Old rivers

We lost one of our great songwriters last year when John Prine succumbed to COVID-19. Prine’s wife Fiona died only days after he did, also from the coronavirus.

In “Hello in There”, Prine captured the most terrible and terrifying parts of aging: isolation, irrelevance, invisibility. And he did it matter-of-factly, in both melody and lyrics.

Here’s Joan Baez singing it shortly before his death.

 

 

Persistence

Last month—when I was subsumed in poetry—I came across this shrub in someone’s garden:

I stopped to take a picture of it because I was struck by how determined Nature is. I mean, whatever this plant is, it had clearly—literally—been pruned back to the bone. And yet, here it is, furiously sprouting leaves and new growth.

We should really think twice about messing with Nature.

 

 

Neighborhood buzz

Let me preface this by stipulating that I am not fond of rhododendrons. I like azaleas fine, but I find their cousins creepy and not to be trusted at all.

(This may have been influenced by them proliferating all around Seattle and the fact that on gloomy, drizzly days masses of dripping rhododendrons are a total creepfest. And most days in Seattle are gloomy and drizzly.)

That said, I discovered a couple of rogue rhodys in the ‘hood, and reluctantly had to admit that they were not creepy. Viz:

Also—someone else was definitely a fan, so there’s that in their favor.

Neighborhood watch

So, this is weird. I think.

A couple of months ago, I was walking out of the ‘hood when I noticed an owl fly to a tree. I stopped, pulled out my mobile and aimed. Because: owl.

A woman was standing in front of her house across the parking lot, talking with another woman; she interrupted her conversation to shout pointedly at me, “Can I help you?”

Now, I was coming from the interior of the cluster, not from the street, but she was challenging my right to be there. Or perhaps my right to shoot photos. I pointed toward the owl.

“Tree,” she said, with astonishing brilliance.

“Bird,” I replied.

The noise disturbed the owl, which flew off, and I went on my walk.

Naturally, every time since, when I walk past her house, I mutter, “Asshole” at it. (I refrain from using the word “bitch” because it kind of connotes that a female asshole is somehow different from a male one.)

Well, yesterday I was headed out when I caught another bird in my peripheral vision, in the general vicinity of her house, followed by a raucous squawking. I stopped to try to see what kind of bird it was. And who should approach, from the street, but Mrs. Biddy Officious. She said she always listens to birds, too. I made some brief response and continued my walk.

Well, blow me if she didn’t pull a 180 and follow me into the corporate campus next door to ask me if I live in that cluster. Like—whiskey tango foxtrot?

I replied in the affirmative and kept on walking. Eventually she branched off my path, like that’s what she’d intended to do all along, and I went over to watch the arborists grinding up the big tree that fell over last week.

Here’s the thing, dear readers—I’m White; like probably 97% of the cluster residents. Like Biddy. (And I recognize that if I were not, she'd probably have called the cops on me, given her bolshie approach to a perceived interloper.) I’m probably in her age range. I’m walking on the sidewalk, not peering into people’s windows or rattling their doors. I'm a little scruffy looking after 14 months of lockdown, but I certainly don't look any more suspicious than the other residents who walk around the property several times a day. And while the cluster does have signs warning that this is private property, where in the almighty fuck does Biddy get the unmitigated nerve to challenge my right to put one foot in front of the other?

She can kiss my California ass. I’m pretty sure I can take her in any fair fight.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: supporting the truth

A week ago, I caught a headline on WaPo and immediately clicked on it. I mean—“The politicians who tried to overturn an election—and the local news team that won’t let anyone forget it”; of course.

Evidently it’s a small team at WITF, the NPR affiliate in Pennsylvania’s capital, but they’ve got integrity. All the Big Guys inviting Republicans onto their Sunday blah-blah shows and not clown-horning them every time they tell a porky about the Big Lie and their part in it—WITF is having none of that. Whenever a state legislator rears up on his/her hind legs to pontificate on any subject, WITF reports it…

Then they add words to the effect that “State Rep Bloviator (R-Whatever) spouted the lie that Pennsylvania voters were committing fraud on a massive scale and s/he pushed to bin those voters’ ballots.”

Well—I hadn’t even finished reading the WaPo story before I was on WITF’s website and clicking on the donate button. I’m now a proud sustaining member of the station, and I’ll keep that going until they haul me out of somewhere in a body bag.

It is my contention that all media should be going full Cato the Elder and appending this resplendent truth to every report of every R who grabs a microphone or sends out a press release while avoiding that little dust-up or even perpetuating the lie. These people tried to invalidate the votes of thousands of their own constituents. They deserve to carry that shame with them as long as their asses are in legislative seats. Actually, that shame should grind their political careers to dust, but it probably won’t.

But it’s Gratitude Monday, Bas Bleu, you say—where’s the gratitude?

It’s here: I didn’t even have to think about becoming a supporter, I just hauled out my credit card digits and clicked the button. And I’m grateful that my money is being used to continue the tradition of a free press directly. No truth, no contribution, WAMU.