Season for keeping promises

I voted on Friday, October 16; participated in the local No Kings - Vote Early rally on Saturday; and today reached the limit of letting MAGAts and their Kommandant live in my head, rent free or not. I'm working on minimizing social media and news reading time henceforth. If civil war breaks out on or shortly after November 3, I'll probably get a call or an email. Could it be coincidence, and what kind, that Election Day next month occurs immediately after the Day of the Dead? Meanwhile, I want to do as little as possible to aid and abet any support of tech oligarchs and their autocrat associates.

what do you need to be ready to vote?

Photo by J. Harrington

We're at peak leaf color but the winds of the past few days have prompted peak leaf fall. Mid-week temperatures are forecast to return into the low 70s. Normal highs for this time of year are in the mid 50s, although "normal" seems on its way to being pronounced archaic. Meanwhile we all get to ponder what a super El Niño may ring to the middle of the country over the next several months. Do these tense, pensive, times warrant the creation of a new term: tensive?

On the brighter side, convincing myself that cleaning up fallen leaves and pulling past bloom golden rod is earth care and not just middle class yard work has helped me enjoy time spent outside this past week. (One aspiration I've never aspired to is having a perfect lawn.) Meanwhile, the local wild turkey flocks and gray squirrel population are making progress cleaning up the fallen acorns. With luck, we'll get early holiday presents as the votes are tallied, the goblins and trolls will soon leave the country and we'll all have lots to be thankful for come November 26.

Let America Be America Again

By Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.

Let it be the pioneer on the plain

Seeking a home where he himself is free.

 

(America never was America to me.)

 

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

 

(It never was America to me.)

 

O, let my land be a land where Liberty

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,

But opportunity is real, and life is free,

Equality is in the air we breathe.

 

(There's never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

 

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

 

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,

I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.

I am the red man driven from the land,

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—

And finding only the same old stupid plan

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

 

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,

Tangled in that ancient endless chain

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!

Of work the men! Of take the pay!

Of owning everything for one's own greed!

 

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.

I am the worker sold to the machine.

I am the Negro, servant to you all.

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—

Hungry yet today despite the dream.

Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!

I am the man who never got ahead,

The poorest worker bartered through the years.

 

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream

In the Old World while still a serf of kings,

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,

That even yet its mighty daring sings

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned

That's made America the land it has become.

O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas

In search of what I meant to be my home—

For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,

And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,

And torn from Black Africa's strand I came

To build a "homeland of the free."

 

The free?

 

Who said the free?  Not me?

Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?

The millions shot down when we strike?

The millions who have nothing for our pay?

For all the dreams we've dreamed

And all the songs we've sung

And all the hopes we've held

And all the flags we've hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay—

Except the dream that's almost dead today.

 

O, let America be America again—

The land that never has been yet—

And yet must be—the land where every man is free.

The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back our mighty dream again.

 

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

 

O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath—

America will be!

 

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,

We, the people, must redeem

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.

The mountains and the endless plain—

All, all the stretch of these great green states—

And make America again!

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On seasonal success[ion]

Tomorrow is Indigenous Peoples Day. Depending on where you are, it may, or may not, be celebrated as such. I don't think there's mail delivery tomorrow, but don't take my word for it, check here. Personally, I'm looking forward to a notable drop in temperatures, since yesterday and today we've been experiencing highs in the mid-80's. Tomorrow is forecast to be about 15℉ cooler, but with scattered thunderstorms. The latter means I may, or may not, try to catch up on leaf picking-upping.

local maple trees, mid-October color

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday, to honor Banned Books Week, I renewed my library card and borrowing privileges at two nearby libraries, each a member of a different system. One of them had available a copy of a book I've been wanting to read for several weeks, Living Resistance, by Kaitlin B. Curtice. I'd recently finished enjoying reading Everything Is a Story by the same author and had been putting off buying a copy due to my continuing stacks of unread books. Based on reading the first few chapters of Living, I suspect it will go on my Christmas list for a reread this winter.

Things are busying up as we head toward the holiday season. Next week we pay the second half of this year's property taxes early in the week and head back to the same county building late in the week to VOTE EARLY, before we join a NO KINGS DAY protest next Saturday, the 17th. Then it's on to Samhain/Halloween; Native American Heritage month in November, Thanksgiving and come December, some family birthdays and Christmas. Amidst the frivolity, we need to sign up for and complete a half day safe driver refresher course for our auto insurance discount.

I don't know how you're viewing the state of the world these days, but I've developed some real questions about the path(s) we're on. Do we really need more data centers? Is Artificial Intelligence a real net benefit? Why haven't we accomplished more to meet climate change adaptation and reduction goals? Should we be satisfied that "Nearly half of adults, 47%, read below a 6th-grade level." 

Kaitlin B. Curtice has an online journal. When I subscribed, I got a link to a pdf of several of her poems, from which I've borrowed the one below. As a society and/or culture, it seems to me that we aren't doing all that well with the way we've approached "success" in our country (and elsewhere). Here's a healthier perspective, I believe.

Success.
They tell us how it’s supposed to be—
success is earned,
learned,
fought for,
worth dying for,
success is a thing that you’ll
climb every mountain
to achieve.
But I think there’s a gentler way.
What if success, for you, for me,
is simply learning to be—
to be with ourselves,
to be with the quiet,
to be with Earth, our Mother,
to be when the noise is loud,
to be when the hustle is demanding,
to be when we “should” be going.
Success isn’t a thing to earn or achieve
but a letting go
so that we get to the right stuff,
the good stuff,
the stuff of magic and love
in the end.
Success to them is an unattainable dream. Success for us, right now, is this moment’s breath and every little sliver of sacredness that follows.

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Banning books: a snow job?

Leaf color is increasing in patches and splotches. (I should spend more time just sitting and watching the leaves change color.) Conifer needles started dropping all over the driveway a few days ago. Most of this years goldenrods have been pulled from in front of the lilac bushes. Autumn is settling in for her seasonal visit.

October 14 snow

Photo by J. Harrington

As far as I can tell, we've not yet had our first local frost, although we have had several advisories. Some years we get our first touch of snow by mid-month. With a super El Nińo pending, I expect we won't see a repeat of the Halloween blizzard of 1991, but I've also learned to Never Say Never.

I'm planning on voting around the end of next week or early the following, depending, in part, on whether Saturday voting is a local option. Plus, the local chapter of Indivisible is holding a NO KINGS- VOTE EARLY rally on Saturday, October 17. I hope and plan to be in attendance, weather and health permitting. (Flu season has started, right?)

Today is the beginning of Banned Books Week. That means it's time for a trip to our friendly, local, independent book store, while wearing my ACLU banned books club sweatshirt. I'm down to no more than a couple of dozen new, unread books stacked on the book cases, so I can at least look for additions before Christmas arrives.

Snow in October

Alice Dunbar-Nelson
1875 – 1935

Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty:

A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery

Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow,

Bending beneath a weight of early snow,

Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk,

And spread a heavy white chilly afghan

Over its crested leaves.

Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing,

Claiming the right to live another fortnight,

Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come,

Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched

Long chill fingers into brown, streaming hair

Of fleeing October.

The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree,

As premature grief grays the strong head

Of a virile, red-haired man.

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Time to Welcome October

For quite a few years now, we've planted half a dozen chrysanthemums along the northern edge of the driveway. This year, for the first time, as much as I can recall, someone's been eating the flowers, mostly the bright yellow ones. A quick internet search suggests that deer, rabbits, and / or squirrels are the most likely culprits. I don't see any hoof prints, so I'm guessing one or both of the latter two but have no more evidence to consider, although a number of flowers continue to lie on the ground around many of the plants.

wedding decoration pumpkins

Photo by J. Harrington

Archery season for deer is now open so there's a number of vehicles wandering the neighborhood and parking in the road ditches. Some of them may be hunting squirrels or rabbits instead of whitetails. That would explain the gun shots I've been hearing while walking Harry the beagle, who is sometimes gun (shot) shy.

Leaf color continues to develop and has been joined by a noticeable increase in leaf drop this past week. Time to start mulch-mowing and blowing so there's not a thick cover when snowfall starts. I'm working on convincing myself that I'm caring for the earth and not just wasting my time. Wish me luck. At least with the drought, grass mowing hasn't been needed nearly as often as during a "normal" summer.

Eleven years ago we were in the midst of preparations for a back yard wedding of the Daughter Person to our soon-to-be Son-In-Law. Leaf colors that year were more fully developed than now. Meanwhile, this year it's time to go pumpkin shopping and check out the snow blower for the season that comes after autumn.

Finally, please be sure to VOTE EARLY, VOTE BLUE [but don't vote often]. Our democracy (and our sanity) depends on you, and me, and each of US!

Vote

by Nikki Giovanni

It’s not a hug
Nor mistletoe at Christmas

It’s not a colored egg
At Easter
Nor a bunny hopping
Across the meadow

It’s a Vote

Saying you are
A citizen

Though it sometimes
Is chocolate
Or sometimes vanilla
It can be a female
Or a male
It is right
Or left
I can agree
Or disagree but
And this is an important but
I am a citizen

I should be able
To vote from prison
I should be able
To vote from the battlefield
I should be able
To vote when I get a driver’s license
I should be able
To vote when I can purchase a gun
I must be able
To vote
If I’m in the hospital
If I’m in the old folks’ home
If I’m needing a ride
To the Polling Place

I am a citizen

I must be able to vote

Folks were lynched
Folks were shot
Folks’ communities were gerrymandered
Folks who believed
In the Constitution were lied to
Burned out
Bought and sold
Because they agreed
All Men Were Created Equal

Folks vote to make us free

It’s not cookies
Nor cake
But it is the icing
That is so sweet

Good for the Folks
Good for Us

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Will it be a beautiful Autumn for US?

If you're looking forward to spending a $5,000 check from the White House on this year's Christmas presents, you might want to reconsider. Political realists tell me they expect to receive their checks a week or so after all the unredacted Epstein files have been released.

"mums" the word for autumn plantings

Photo by J. Harrington

Back in the real world, this past week the Better Half and I planted half a dozen mums along the driveway in what's become an annual seasonal event recognizing a transition from Summer to Autumn. Today's weather feels much less like Summer than did yesterday's. On the other hand, the local hummingbirds are still coming to the feeders, so they've not yet migrated. I'm curious to see if I'll have to refill the feeders next weekend or if today is the last time for this year.

Almost 71% of the state is experiencing some degree of drought. The nearby St. Croix river flows have been hovering just above the bottom ten (lowest) flow levels. Various regions throughout the state are beginning to show leaf colors. For the first time in months, I've been comfortable wearing a chamois shirt inside the house all day. If we get the wet winter we need, I hope it comes early as rain and not as heavy wet snow mid- or late winter.

As we slide into Autumn, let's cross our fingers and work our butts off to do all we can to have lots to be thankful for three weeks after election day. Please be sure to:

• Make sure you're registered to vote
• Vote early
• Encourage your neighbors, friends and families to vote
• Pray for US

         Ghazal: America the Beautiful

Alicia Ostriker
1937 –

Do you remember our earnestness our sincerity
in first grade when we learned to sing America

The Beautiful along with the Star-Spangled Banner
and say the Pledge of Allegiance to America

We put our hands over our first grade hearts
we felt proud to be citizens of America

I said One Nation Invisible until corrected
maybe I was right about America

School days school days dear old Golden Rule Days
when we learned how to behave in America

What to wear, how to smoke, how to despise our parents
who didn’t understand us or America

Only later learning the Banner and the Beautiful
live on opposite sides of the street in America

Only later discovering the Nation is divisible
by money by power by color by gender by sex America

We comprehend it now this land is two lands
one triumphant bully one still hopeful America

Imagining amber waves of grain blowing in the wind
purple mountains and no homeless in America

Sometimes I still put my hand tenderly on my heart
somehow or other still carried away by America

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Is zero some enough?

Labor Day, the unofficial end of Summer, is two weeks away. The Autumn Equinox officially ends Summer in the northern hemisphere exactly one month from today. This morning's predawn temperatures had a tinge of Autumn. Purple Love Grass (Eragrostis spectabilis) is shedding its tumbleseed spikelets. Who was it that wrote "parting is such sweet sorrow"? The season of growing is evolving into the harvest season.

purple love grass (Eragrostis spectabilis)

Photo by J. Harrington

Midterm elections are 72 days from now. Some of US are doubtful even a blue tsunami will actually settle much of anything but find hope in the growing pushback against (Disney and ABC sue FCC over license renewals) and resistance to the current powers that be in D.C. We do seem to be in the midst of the apocryphal Chinese curse "May you live in interesting times." I hesitate to suggest widespread boredom might be preferable but .... Or, perhaps we'll actually luck out and get an early Christmas present of a return to a democracy based on the rule of law instead of a wannabe dictator's whims and wishes. 

If you're up for it, here's a mind game to try: Think about the size and complexity of the universe. There's an estimated 2 trillion (with a "t")+ galaxies that we know of. There's black holes, dark matter, dark energy, and whatever else we haven't discovered or hypothesized about, plus the observable universe. So, the question for this game is: "Is the universe a zero sum game?" My answer is "How would we know?" For similar reasons, you might ask yourself why are we functioning in a system that allows limited numbers of billionaires or trillionaires but practically limitless numbers of starving, homeless adults and children. We discover the laws of the universe. On earth, we create the laws of society. Can't we do better?

Once the World Was Perfect 

By Joy Harjo

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.

Then we took it for granted.

Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.

Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.

And once Doubt ruptured the web,

All manner of demon thoughts

Jumped through—

We destroyed the world we had been given

For inspiration, for life—

Each stone of jealousy, each stone

Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.

No one was without a stone in his or her hand.

There we were,

Right back where we had started.

We were bumping into each other

In the dark.

And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know

How to live with each other.

Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another

And shared a blanket.

A spark of kindness made a light.

The light made an opening in the darkness.

Everyone worked together to make a ladder.

A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,

And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,

And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

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Peak Summer perspectives

In our northern hemisphere, this coming Saturday, August 1, Lughnasadh is celebrated among the Celts and Irish Gaelic. Locally, row crop harvest will start in a couple of months and fruit and vegetable harvest has been underway for a couple of months. Somewhere close to or on August 7 we'll reach the midpoint between between Summer Solstice and Autumn Equinox. This sure seems like peak Summer and the weather concurs. Right now the temperature is in the mid 90's (℉) and the humidity makes it feel like 113℉. At least the wildfire smoke has eased away for now.

field corn not yet  ready for harvest

Photo by J. Harrington

The limited cool down forecast for the next ten days may be enough for those Minnesotans who vote in person on August 11 to get over being hot under the collar. Early voters, not so much. Those who pay close attention to the state of the world, the country, the state, and/or the 99% are unlikely to cool down regardless of the weather. I'm reminded of the key theme from Dr. Seuss' The Lorax: "Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, Nothing is going to get better. It's not." I'm here to say it's well past time we all stop voting for Once-lers while we still have a habitable planet to protect! I wonder if we could send all of the 1% to colonize the "Red Planet." (Am I the only one who sees real irony in that?)

At some point we seem to have allowed those who are supposed to represent US to act as though the words accommodate, tolerate, cooperate, and compromise are each spelled with only four letters and aren't to be used in polite political company. winner take all is the antithesis of a democracy, just as is the short-sightedness of not thinking beyond this quarter's profits. How can we be sure to vote only for those who realize we, and our descendants, are all in this for the long term? Your thoughts?

Ghazal: America the Beautiful

Alicia Ostriker

1937 –

Do you remember our earnestness our sincerity
in first grade when we learned to sing America

The Beautiful along with the Star-Spangled Banner
and say the Pledge of Allegiance to America

We put our hands over our first grade hearts
we felt proud to be citizens of America

I said One Nation Invisible until corrected
maybe I was right about America

School days school days dear old Golden Rule Days
when we learned how to behave in America

What to wear, how to smoke, how to despise our parents
who didn’t understand us or America

Only later learning the Banner and the Beautiful
live on opposite sides of the street in America

Only later discovering the Nation is divisible
by money by power by color by gender by sex America

We comprehend it now this land is two lands
one triumphant bully one still hopeful America

Imagining amber waves of grain blowing in the wind
purple mountains and no homeless in America

Sometimes I still put my hand tenderly on my heart
somehow or other still carried away by America

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This is a taxing season!

One week from today, March 1, is the start of meteorological Spring. Astronomical Spring follows about three weeks later. Then, here in the North Country, we enjoy several months of false spring with intermittent periods of snow and melting. Then, usually in late May or early June, the temperature jumps from the 60's to the upper 80's within a week, and it's Summer. I find it distressingly rare for Minnesota to produce a gradual, progressive, temperature increase between winter and summer. The clothes hooks in the front hall are crowded with three seasons of coats and hats, but it's an improvement over single digit temperatures and freezing rain. Thanks for letting me me get that off my chest!

Spring will slog her way to Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

This past week SCOTUS announced a decision that partially clips FOTUS' wings on tariffs. A recent study indicates that almost all of the cost of tariffs is paid by American households and businesses. Other analyses indicate that tariffs cost the average household $1,000 or more last year. In skimming through the reports, I could find no indication of a compounding effect on household budgets caused by local and state sales taxes. In a nearby city where we do much of our shopping, the sales taxes we pay are listed as follows:

State    6.875%
Special 0.75%
Special 0.25%
Special 0.50%

The cumulative 8.375% state and local sales taxes would add $83.75 (approaching 10%) to the household cost if the goods on which tariffs were imposed are also subject to local taxes. Something to think about between now and midterm elections.

I don't know about you but I haven't seen any indication of receiving any kind of actual offset to the increases imposed by the current regime, have you? It sure llooks to me as though only billionaires and large corporations benefit from getting US to vote Republican.

The Tax Poem by Author Unknown

Tax his land, tax his wage, Tax his bed in which he lays. Tax his tractor, tax his mule, Teach him taxes is the rule. Tax his cow, tax his goat, Tax his pants, tax his coat. Tax his ties, tax his shirts, Tax his work, tax his dirt. Tax his chew, tax his smoke, Teach him taxes are no joke. Tax his car, tax his grass, Tax the roads he must pass. Tax his food, tax his drink, Tax him if he tries to think. Tax his sodas, tax his beers, If he cries, tax his tears. Tax his bills, tax his gas, Tax his notes, tax his cash. Tax him good and let him know That after taxes, he has no dough. If he hollers, tax him more, Tax him until he’s good and sore. Tax his coffin, tax his grave, Tax the sod in which he lays. Put these words upon his tomb, "Taxes drove me to my doom!" And when he’s gone, we won’t relax, We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.

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The autumn leaves drift by my window

The local leaves are just about at peak color, sliding past peak any day now as the colors drift down with the leaves. It sure is pretty around here for now. Yesterday I noticed a new dandelion blossom. Today there’s a small cluster of little white flowers. Garter snakes are out and about. I wish they’d feast on more of the mice that keep getting into the house. We must have trapped almost two dozen since last Sunday.

Autumn's silver and gold

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half, plus our son, plus me, have all voted early. I wonder how long post November 5 the suspense may continue and how long after that the prospect of violence may hang in the air. Meanwhile, critical global and national issues continue to fester instead of getting the attention deserved and needed. For example, a report issued this past week calls to our attention, inter alia, the following:

Most gravely, while itself a victim of climate change,

the degradation of freshwater ecosystems including

the loss of moisture in the soil has become a driver

of climate change and biodiversity loss. The result

is more frequent and increasingly severe droughts,

floods, heatwaves, and wildfires, playing out across

the globe. And a future of growing water scarcity,

with grave consequences for human security.

Nearly 3 billion people and more than half of the

world’s food production are now in areas where

total water storage is projected to decline.

We’ve seen examples of these issues with recent hurricanes and flooding in major parts of our country. Most Republicans I’ve read about claim climate change is some kind of scam. Of course many of them also continue to incorrectly refer to the 2020 election as “stolen.”

Things got more than a little hectic around the homestead this week, especially today. The Better Half noticed one of the kitchen cabinets needs major repairs. An electrical circuit that, about this time last year,, started tripping the breaker for no reason that we or the electrician could figure out, is doing it again this year. My theory is that mice in the garage are biting into a hot wire because the breaker can be reset after a few hours. Anyhow, I’m tuckered so this posting is short and as sweet as I can make it. More next week.

Neighbors in October

By David Baker

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon

with bales to the barn, then back to the waiting

chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke.

Down the block we bend with the season:

shoes to polish for a big game,

storm windows to batten or patch.

And how like a field is the whole sky now

that the maples have shed their leaves, too.

It makes us believers—stationed in groups,

leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters

over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,

bagging gold for the cold days to come.

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does GOP = BORG?

I grew up with a story of America as a “melting pot,” which I incorrectly pictured as a stew pot in which the carrots and corn kernels and pieces of potato all retained their individual identities as they contributed to a wholesome and filling meal. Later, as a fan of the Star Trek tv series. I learned of the Borg and assimilation and the phrase “Resistance is futile.” As I read about and see stories of the Republican National Convention and their nominees for president and vice-president, and Project 2025, I wonder when and how the Borg landed and assimilated MAGAts using nanoprobes and what that means for our future if they are not promptly and resoundly driven back to wherever they came from. If you wonder what life as an assimilee might be like, check news stories about life in Russia, China, Hungary or Gaza.

Another part of the story I grew up with in Massachusetts is that Colonial America was largely founded by religious emigrants (who didn’t invade and usurp the territories of indigenous peoples). For those emigrants, the separation of church and state was endemic to the creation of a country from separate colonies. To become a christian nationalist country in November would, in my opinion, put US in BORGian territory and I want no part of it or those who would assimilate US that way. 

If you believe I’m overreacting to the deconstruction of a political party in the creation of an alien Borganization, let me leave you with these thoughts:

• "I’m from Appalachia. JD Vance doesn’t represent us – he only represents himself"
• "Hillbillies Need No Elegy"
• “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” and, it could be this:

Freedom

By Jill McDonough

I talk to the students in jail about freedom, how in America

we obsess over it, write it over flags on T-shirts, spread

it around under eagles. It has something to do with guns

and fireworks, Harley-Davidsons, New Hampshire, living free

until you’re dead. I tell the students I think the people

fetishizing freedom don’t mean it. That they really mean

look over here, away from all the slavery

we did, away from all the jail! I tell them they

are the experts, ask them to write what freedom means:

privacy is freedom and if  you feel held back, afraid

to do something, you’re not completely free.   No fear

of  loss. No fear of  hunger, no fear of  pain.   A body

to call my own, a voice driven by my own mind.

The security of a dry, warm place to sleep.   To own

my own time left here.   Being able to hold my son

at night.   Showering in private.   Freedom to me

is having the choice to walk away from a fight. Freedom

a work in progress. Everyday freedom, the real work for us all.

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All Hands: On Deck or Be Decked

1. Please find me in contempt of the Roberts’ SCOTUS.
2. Also, dismayed by POTUS performance at the recent “debate.”
3. Disgusted that our political parties have put our democracy in this position and condition.
4. Frustrated by the lack of a clear course of action to make things better.
5. Absolutely refusing to throw up (my hands) in despair.

Where does that leave US?

1. Make sure you’re registered to vote and mark November 5 on your calendar.
2. If you haven’t yet, please read Sarah Kendzior’s Hiding in Plain Sight and The View from Flyover Country.
3. Also read Heather Cox Richardson’s Democracy Awakening: Notes on the State of America and subscribe (free or paid) to her Letters from an American.
4. Remember that it won’t be enough for Democrats to have a trifecta if they don’t make necessary systemic changes to our systems of governance. The operative phrase is “No more Mr./Ms./Whatever Nice Guy/Gal/Other"
5. If you’re not worn out by the preceding, take a look at the idea of being a Solutionary and see if you can get your local school and government to include it.
6. Remember Kris Kristofferson’s great lyrics:

“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose
 Nothin' ain't worth nothin' but it's free"

If you have additional suggestions on how we can and should fix our longstanding governance problems, please feel free to leave a message.

Freedom

By Jill McDonough

I talk to the students in jail about freedom, how in America

we obsess over it, write it over flags on T-shirts, spread

it around under eagles. It has something to do with guns

and fireworks, Harley-Davidsons, New Hampshire, living free

until you’re dead. I tell the students I think the people

fetishizing freedom don’t mean it. That they really mean

look over here, away from all the slavery

we did, away from all the jail! I tell them they

are the experts, ask them to write what freedom means:

privacy is freedom and if  you feel held back, afraid

to do something, you’re not completely free.   No fear

of  loss. No fear of  hunger, no fear of  pain.   A body

to call my own, a voice driven by my own mind.

The security of a dry, warm place to sleep.   To own

my own time left here.   Being able to hold my son

at night.   Showering in private.   Freedom to me

is having the choice to walk away from a fight. Freedom

a work in progress. Everyday freedom, the real work for us all.

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Rocks and hard places

I recently received an email asking me to split a political contribution between a US Senator running for reelection in his state, and a member of the House running for the Senate for the first time in her state. I don’t look forward to living in a country with MAGAts in charge, but I’m not overwhelmed with enthusiasm for many Democrats, either. So, I did some research and found what I consider a fatal flaw in the “conservative Democrat’s” credentials. She supports a buy-in Medicare option but not Medicare for All. On that basis I’m declining the invitation to split a contribution between the two campaigns.

Your Voice Your Vote Use It

Photo by J. Harrington

Politics has become the equivalent of answering the question: “Which eye do you want the sharp stick in?” I’m not convinced it has to be that way, but neither am I naive enough to believe it will improve voluntarily. Part of the problem is that Democrats seem to believe they only have to be a little more sane than Republicans to appeal to those who aren’t entirely greedy and self-serving. But that, to me, represents a difference between necessary and sufficient. If I really wanted to stretch things, here’s where I’d throw in William McDonough’s concept that making things “less bad” is not making them “more good.”

It seems to me that an inevitable consequence of putting the inmates in charge of the asylum is that, eventually they’ll burn down the asylum and everyone is then homeless and starving. Maybe that’s what it will take to get some folks to recognize that magical thinking isn’t what wins elections or successfully runs a country.

Based on my analysis so far, the odds I’d vote for any Republican are the proverbial slim to none. But that doesn’t mean I’ll try to settle for less bad by donating $$ to a conservative Democrat. Have I got this all wrong?

What Kind of Times Are These

By Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

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11/5/24: Felonious assault?

Next November 5 has the possibility of telling the world a lot about the character of the American people. Barring the unforeseen, a growing challenge these days, the choice will be between a sitting president with a demonstrable track record and a convicted felon not noted for his truth-telling. In the world I grew up in, it shouldn’t even be close. If it is close, people should remember that "It was Joseph de Maistre who wrote in 1811 "Every nation gets the government it deserves.”” It may be difficult to claim we are a nation governed of, by, and for the people if we allow a felonious, autocratic, would-be dictator to get elected by those who deserve such.

Many these days choose to blame tRUMP for many things wrong with the country. I believe that’s misplacing blame that should be borne by those who voted for him in 2016. Although, if we were to do a root cause analysis, blame should lie with the Democratic and Republican parties who chose the candidates for president in 2016.

Perhaps the real issue is that we have, after almost 250 years, come to take democracy for granted. Perhaps we have compromised our way into something less than mediocrity. According to an assessment by US News, the US ranks 23rd in Quality of Life, although we’re ranked higher in other categories. Might it be time for US to figure out what we really want to be when we grow up?

We need significant improvements in our education and heath care systems. The urban-rural divide needs, at a minimum, better bridges. We also must find a way to make any major political party more democratic and less under the control of an oligarchy if we want a democracy worthy of the name.

Democracy Poem #1

By June Jordan

Tell them that I stood

in line

and I waited

and I waited

like everybody

else

But I never got

called

And I keep that scrap

of paper

in my pocket

just in case

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When do we all do better? (When we work together!)

The Minnesota legislative session is almost over for the year. By the time we’ve figured out what they’ve done to us, they’ll be back at it again next year. If legislatures were comparable to corporations, many would drive their states into bankruptcy, as Congress continually tries to do when the Republicans are in charge. Would it be possible to only vote for those, in whatever party, who have education, training and experience in win-win negotiating? Politics, in a democracy, should not be a zero sum game.

Are you ready to vote?

Photo by J. Harrington

If we consider the world as a model, nature creates synergistic benefits from the multitudes of different species and ecosystems. Why is it that we can’t manage our elected officials so that they do much better than we’ve been experiencing? Is it that we’re too tolerant of our officials' failures? Too accepting of results that benefit the 1% at the expense of the rest of US? This country was founded in rebellion against a government that treated colonies as an extraction zone. Aren’t we experiencing something similar with a system in which corporations and billionaires pay effective tax rates lower than most of US? Meanwhile, corporations continue to use our commons as a dumping ground for their toxic wastes, making more of US sicker while they profit and our health care system is breaking down. How many more years will we continue to allow political factions to kick down the road cans such as the definition of Waters Of The United States (WOTUS)? It’s all one interconnected water system!!!

Senator Sanders of Vermont has a piece in The Guardian that’s worth reading: We’re in a pivotal moment in American history. We cannot retreat. The late Senator Wellstone of Minnesota had a slogan that: “We all do better when we all do better.” That reflects the qualities I’m espousing we look for in candidates. Ask yourself how many successful marriages are based on a zero sum, I win, you lose, relationship. Then ask yourself why we can’t do better next November than repeat past mistakes.

Let Them Not Say

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Let them not say:   we did not see it.
We saw.

Let them not say:   we did not hear it.
We heard.

Let them not say:     they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.

Let them not say:   it was not spoken, not written.
We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.

Let them not say:     they did nothing.
We did not-enough.

Let them say, as they must say something: 

A kerosene beauty.
It burned.

Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.

—2014

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We’ve been here before

I admit that I don’t remember the 1964 political conventions and presidential campaigns very clearly, but a quick search on the internet gives me a sense of, as Yogi Berra put it: “It’s deja vu all over again!” At the time, Goldwater was probably considered as radical as the likely Republican nominee for 2024, although without the foreign baggage. Lyndon Johnson (D) defeated Goldwater (R) by a landslide. As I recall, neither candidate was particularly well liked. Seem familiar? Let’s work like hell and hope that the presidential electoral pattern of 1964 repeats itself this year.

The 1964 elections were overshadowed by the assassination of President John F. (Jack) Kennedy in 1963. When he was campaigning for the presidency, there was concern that, as a Catholic, he would be unduly influenced by the Pope. Those concerns were much less well founded than current concerns about the excessive influence of foreign oligarchs on one of the likely candidates this year. (If I have to spell out which one, you should do more homework before November.)

Are you ready to Vote?

Photo by J. Harrington

Frankly, I believe that our divisions have much more to do with our economics than our politics, if we can try to separate the two. It was another Kennedy, who was assassinated while a candidate for the presidency, who described what I now believe is the source of many, probably most, of our conflicts. Bobby Kennedy, in his Remarks at the University of Kansas, March 18, 1968, noted:

And this is one of the great tasks of leadership for us, as individuals and citizens this year.  But even if we act to erase material poverty, there is another greater task, it is to confront the poverty of satisfaction - purpose and dignity - that afflicts us all.  Too much and for too long, we seemed to have surrendered personal excellence and community values in the mere accumulation of material things.  Our Gross National Product, now, is over $800 billion dollars a year, but that Gross National Product - if we judge the United States of America by that - that Gross National Product counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage.  It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for the people who break them.  It counts the destruction of the redwood and the loss of our natural wonder in chaotic sprawl.  It counts napalm and counts nuclear warheads and armored cars for the police to fight the riots in our cities.  It counts Whitman's rifle and Speck's knife, and the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children.  Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play.  It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials.  It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile.  And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.

We’ve not yet erased material poverty but, between now and November, please ask yourself which candidate is more likely to help US “confront the poverty of satisfaction - purpose and dignity - “ and which is more likely to pour salt into our festering wounds.

Becoming Seventy

By Joy Harjo

Knoxville, December 27, 2016, for Marilyn Kallet’s 70th birthday.
This poem was constructed to carry any memory you want to hold close.

We
 

arrived
 

when the days
 

grew legs of night.
 

Chocolates were offered.
 

We ate latkes for hours
 

to celebrate light and friends.
 

We will keep going despite dark
 

or a madman in a white house dream.
 

Let’s talk about something else said the dog
 

who begs faithfully at the door of goodwill:
 

a biscuit will do, a voice of reason, meat sticks — 
 

I dreamed all of this I told her, you, me, and Paris — 
 

it was impossible to make it through the tragedy
 

without poetry. What are we without winds becoming words?
 

Becoming old children born to children born to sing us into
 

love. Another level of love, beyond the neighbor’s holiday light
 

display proclaiming goodwill to all men who have lost their way in the dark
 

as they tried to find the car door, the bottle hidden behind the seat, reason
 

to keep on going past all the times they failed at sharing love, love. It’s weak they think — 
 

or some romantic bullshit, a movie set propped up behind on slats, said the wizard
 

of junk understanding who pretends to be the wise all-knowing dog behind a cheap fan.
 

It’s in the plan for the new world straining to break through the floor of this one, said the Angel of
 

All-That-You-Know-and-Forgot-and-Will-Find, as she flutters the edge of your mind when you try to

 

sing the blues to the future of everything that might happen and will. All the losses come tumbling
 

down, down, down at three in the morning as do all the shouldn’t-haves or should-haves. It doesn’t matter, girl —
 

I’ll be here to pick you up, said Memory, in her red shoes, and the dress that showed off brown legs. When you met
 

him at the age you have always loved, hair perfect with a little wave, and that shine in your skin from believing what was
 

impossible was possible, you were not afraid. You stood up in love in a French story and there fell ever
 

a light rain as you crossed the Seine to meet him for café in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. You wrote a poem beneath the tender
 

skin from your ribs to your hip bone, in the slender then, and you are still writing that song to convince the sweetness of every
 

bit of straggling moonlight, star and sunlight to become words in your mouth, in your kiss — that kiss that will never die, you will all
 

ways fall in love. It doesn’t matter how old, how many days, hours, or memories, we can fall in love over and over
 

again. The Seine or Tennessee or any river with a soul knows the depths descending when it comes to seeing the sun or moon stare
 

back, without shame, remorse, or guilt. This is what I remember she told her husband when they bedded down that night in the house that would begin
 

marriage. That house was built of twenty-four doves, rugs from India, cooking recipes from seven generations of mothers and their sisters,
 

and wave upon wave of tears, and the concrete of resolution for the steps that continue all the way to the heavens, past guardian dogs, dog
 

after dog to protect. They are humble earth angels, and the rowdiest, even nasty. You try and lick yourself like that, imagine. And the Old
 

Woman laughed as she slipped off her cheap shoes and parked them under the bed that lies at the center of the garden of good and evil. She’d seen it all. Done it
 

more than once. Tonight, she just wanted a good sleep, and picked up the book of poetry by her bed, which was over a journal she kept when her mother was dying.
 

These words from May Sarton she kept in the fourth room of her heart, “Love, come upon him warily and deep / For if he startle first it were as well / to bind a fox’s
 

throat with a gold bell /As hold him when it is his will to leap.” And she considered that every line of a poem was a lead line into the spirit world to capture a
 

bit of memory, pieces of gold confetti, a kind of celebration. We all want to be remembered, even memory, even the way the light came in the kitchen
 

window, when her mother turned up the dial on that cool mist color 
of a radio, when memory crossed the path of longing and took 
mother’s arm and she put down her apron
 

said, “I don’t mind if I do,” and they danced, you watching, as you began your own cache of remembering. Already you had stored the taste of mother as milk, father as a labor
 

of sweat and love, and night as a lonely boat of stars that took you into who you were before you slid through the hips of the story. There are no words when you cross the
 

gate of forbidden waters, or is it a sheer scarf of the finest silk, or is it something else that causes you to forget. Nothing is ever forgotten says the god of remembering
 

who protects the heartbeat of every little cell of knowing from the Antarctic to the soft spot at the top of this planetary baby. Oh baby, come here, let me tell you the story
 

of the party you will never forget, no matter where you go, where you are, or where you will be when you cross the line and say, no more. No more greedy kings, no more disappointments, no more orphans,
 

or thefts of souls or lands, no more killing for the sport of killing. No more, no more, except more of the story so I will understand exactly what I am doing here, and why, she said to the fox
 

guardian who took her arm to help her cross the road that was given to the care of Natives who made sure the earth spirits were fed with songs, and the other things they loved to eat. They like sweets, cookies, and flowers.
 

It was getting late and the fox guardian picked up her books as she hurried through the streets of strife. But it wasn’t getting late. There was no late, only a plate of tamales on the counter waiting to be
 

or not to be. At this age, said the fox, we are closer to the not to be, which is the to be in the fields of sweet grasses. Wherever you are, enjoy the evening, how the sun walks the horizon before cross
 

sing over to be, and we then exist under the realm of the moon. There’s where fears slay us, in the dark of the howling mind. We all battle. Befriend them, the moon said as a crab skittered under her skirt, her daughter in
 

the high chair, waiting for cereal and toast. What a girl she turned out to be, a willow tree, a blessing to the winds, to her family. There she is married, and we start the story all over again, said her father
 

in a toast to the happiness of who we are and who we are becoming as Change in a new model sedan whips it down the freeway toward the generations that follow, one after another in the original
 

lands of the Mvskoke who are still here. Nobody goes anywhere though we are always leaving and returning. It’s a ceremony. Sunrise occurs everywhere, in lizard time, human time, or a fern uncurling time. We
 

instinctually reach for light food, we digest it, make love, art or 
trouble of it. The sun crowns us at noon. The whole earth is a queen. Then there are always goodbyes. At sunset say goodbye to hurt, to suffering, to the pain you caused others,
 

or yourself. Goodbye, goodbye, to Carrie Fisher, the Star Wars phenomenon, and George Michael, the singer. They were planets in our emotional universe. Some of my memories are opened by the image of love on screen in an
 

imagined future, or broken open when the sax solo of “Careless Whisper” blows through the communal heart. Yes, there’s a cosmic consciousness. Jung named it but it was there long before named by Vedic and Mvskoke scientists. And, there is
 

a cosmic hearteousness — for the heart is the higher mind and nothing can be forgotten there, no ever or ever. How do I sing this so 
I don’t forget? Ask the poets. Each word is a box that can be opened or closed. Then a train of words, phrases
 

garnered by music and the need for rhythm to organize chaos. Like right here, now, in this poem is the transition phase. I remembered it while giving birth, summer sun bearing down on the city melting asphalt but there we were, my daughter
 

and I, at the door between worlds. I was happier than ever before to welcome her, happiness was the path she chose to enter, and 
I couldn’t push yet, not yet, and then there appeared a pool of the 
bluest water. We waited there for a breath
 

to catch up, and then it did, and she took it that girl who was beautiful beyond dolphin dreaming, and we made it, we did, to the other side of suffering. This is the story our mothers tell but we couldn’t hear it in our ears stuffed with Barbie advertising,
 

with our mothers’ own loathing set in place by patriarchal scripture, the smothering rules to stop insurrection by domesticated slaves, or wives. It hurt everybody. The fathers cannot know what they are feeling in such a spiritual backwash. Worship
 

boxes set into place by the need for money and power will not beget freedom. Only warships. For freedom, freedom, oh freedom sang the slaves, the oar rhythm of the blues lifting up the spirits of peoples whose bodies were worn out, or destroyed by a man’s slash,
 

hit of greed. This is our memory too, said America. Heredity is a field of blood, celebration, and forgetfulness. Don’t take on more than you can carry, said the eagle to his twin sons, fighting each other in the sky over a fox, dangling between
 

them. It’s that time of the year, when we eat tamales and latkes. We light candles, fires to make the way for a newborn child, for fresh 
understanding. Demons will try to make houses out of jealousy, anger, 
pride, greed, or more destructive material. They place them in a
 

part of the body that will hold them: liver, heart, knee, or brain. So, my friend, let’s let that go, for joy, for chocolates made of ashes, mangos, grapefruit, or chili from Oaxaca, for sparkling wine from Spain, for these children who show up in our dreams and want to live at any cost because
 

we are here to feed them joy. Your soul is so finely woven the silkworms went on strike, said the mulberry tree. We all have mulberry trees in the memory yard. They hold the place for skinned knees earned by small braveries, cousins you love who are gone, a father cutting a

watermelon in the summer on the porch, and a mother so in love that her heart breaks — it will never be the same, yet all memory bends to fit. The heart has uncountable rooms. We turn to leave here, and so will the hedgehog who makes a home next to that porch. We become birds, poems.

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More love for prisoners than for students?

Stone Walls do not a Prison make, 

Nor Iron bars a Cage;

school? prison? other?

Photo by J. Harrington

Unless the Minnesota legislature loves prisoners more than students, or believes that school resource officers have better judgement than prison guards, I don’t understand why they’re considering changing last year’s legislation prohibiting certain holds in schools, that have been and are still banned in prisons.

The language protecting prisoners is found in HF 63   2nd Engrossment - 92nd Legislature, 2021 1st Special Session (2021 - 2021):

243.52 DISCIPLINE; PREVENTION OF ESCAPE; DUTY TO REPORT.
Subdivision 1.

Discipline and prevention of escape

If any inmate of person confined or incarcerated in any adult correctional facility either under the control of the commissioner of corrections or licensed by the commissioner of corrections under section 241.021 assaults any correctional officer or any other person or inmate, the assaulted person may use force 
in defense of the assault, except as limited in this section. If any inmate confined or incarcerated person attempts to damage the buildings or appurtenances, resists the lawful authority of any correctional officer, refuses to obey the correctional officer's reasonable demands, or attempts to escape, the correctional officer may enforce obedience and discipline or prevent escape by the use of force. If any inmate confined or incarcerated person resisting lawful authority is wounded or killed by the use of force by the correctional officer or assistants, that conduct is authorized under this section.

Subd. 2.

Use of force.

(a) Use of force must not be applied maliciously or sadistically 
for the purpose of causing harm to a confined or incarcerated person.

(b) Unless the use of deadly force is justified in this section, a correctional officer working in an adult correctional facility either under the control of the commissioner of corrections or licensed by the commissioner under section 241.021 may not use any of the following restraints:

(1) a choke hold;

(2) a prone restraint;

(3) tying all of a person's limbs together behind the person's back to render the person immobile; or

(4) securing a person in any way that results in transporting the person face down in a vehicle, except as directed by a medical professional.

The legislative session that started yesterday has, as a priority, responding to the kinds of issues raised in this article: Prone restraint is banned in Minnesota prisons, yet controversy continues about a ban in schools. Perhaps the issue could be resolved by taking the language relative to prisons and adding school resource officers and including commissioner of education in addition to corrections. For the life of me I don’t understand the furor. Maybe an even better solution would be to prohibit licensed police from serving as school resource officers and using the money saved to add teachers and mental health professionals?

School-to-Prison Pants

By Clemonce Heard

After Laurie Thomas

They had to be Dickies®, not Dockers®.

They had to include a cellphone pocket

on the right leg, & feign a faint hanging

off our tails in spite of a belt’s strangling

support. They had to scream prison, jail,

scream water’s rising, scream help-p-p-p

from the lowest floor. But unlike water

they couldn’t rise, couldn’t obey a warden

lest they risk being jive. They had to be

spread wider than bars. They couldn’t be

starched or pressed, but steamed via dryer.

They had to be creaseless, but crisp, khaki

as a waterline staining crest-white Nikes®;

Forces. Lord forbid they be high waters.

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