Category Archives: General Observations

Public, Political, and Possible

Witness to History – A Personal Journey

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I know empirically that the days are not getting shorter. Twenty-four hours are still twenty-four hours, no matter what time zone you are in or daylight you are saving. The weeks still contain seven days, although every Friday seems like it happened only two days ago. And don’t get me started on Christmas. I remember when it seemed like decades between Christmas’, hence the old saying, “as slow as Christmas”. Now it seems like just a month or two separates this Christmas from last Christmas and next Christmas. Has the Earth sped up? Or is it something else?

I don’t feel older, but if I look at the date of my birth, it becomes more and more like ancient history. I’m remembering agonizing years of struggle for women’s rights, civil rights and wars that nowadays may get one or two paragraphs in a high school textbook (are there such things as textbooks?).  I remember a time when I could not have a bank account, a credit card, or make a major purchase without my husband’s accompanying signature. My name was Mrs., instead of my given name. If I hadn’t been married, it meant that my father would have had to sign for me. I don’t know what happened to the females who had neither a father nor husband. As late as the 1950s, women could involutarily be committed to mental institutions by fathers or husbands without medical or legal requirements.

For a time in the 1940s, women were a major factor in the workforce because so many men were fighting overseas, and military production was ramped up. After WWII, when the men returned, women lost their jobs. It was more important that a man, who was considered the head of the household, have a job. Women were sent back home to be homemakers to support their men and nurture their children. I remember even into the 1960s, when I worked in offices, I was considered like part of the furnishings or a minion to be ordered about at the behest of any male in the company. I did all the step-and-fetch-it jobs as well as my own as a purchasing agent in one company and a secretary in another. A male colleague could pat my butt or throw an arm around me at will. There was no HR to run to. I learned to negotiate my autonomy with humor and strategy so as not to offend but let men know I was neither property nor servant. It worked.

I remember a time when people of color, then called “coloreds”, not blacks or Hispanics,  were relegated to the back of the bus and entered and exited through the back door only – no questions asked. I remember a time when there were “separate but equal” schools, swimming pools, public washrooms, and water fountains. The signs said “Whites” and “Coloreds,” so there was no question. They lived on their side of town, we lived on ours. The only time we went to their side was for barbecue. Daddy took me with him to get barbecued smoked ribs from a man in colored town. The memory of those ribs lingers on my tongue, and I’ve never since had any as good as they were.

In 1948, the idea that a black man would be President or that a black woman would be Vice President or sit on the Supreme Court was as foreign a thought as man landing on the moon. Yes, there was a time when a moon landing was science FICTION. At that time, there were no black or female CEOs in major corporations in the U.S. The United States was run by white males.

As a small child, racism was just the way things were. I didn’t know any different. One quick story is about a time when my mother and I were going into downtown Wichita. I think I was about three. My mother told this story to me countless times. To her, it represented a time when I publicly humiliated her. Of course, I see it differently. We lived in the small community of Riverside in Wichita. We only had one car that my father used to go to work, so when Mom wanted to go to town, she and I took a short bus ride.  We waited for the bus at the corner of 18th and Burns. When it arrived, Mom helped me up the steps into the bus. She claims that as soon as I got on, I ran toward the back of the bus with my arms open wide yelling, “Grandpa, grandpa.” The back of the bus was for coloreds only. Evidently, an elderly gray-haired black man was sitting back there, whom I found appealing. He had a big smile on his face. He seemed like a grandpa to me. All the bus riders, including the unlucky black man I targeted, held their collective breaths. This was NOT accepted behavior, and I’m sure it caused no end of consternation. Mom grabbed me by the arm and yanked me back up the aisle and out the door as fast as she could. The bus doors were closed, and it continued its route. Heaven only knows what the “grandpa” on the bus thought or what those around him said. I wish I could have been there to witness. The point is, I didn’t see color. I saw a grandpa. I needed to be taught that those people were different – not our kind.

Mom clung to her nebulous racism her entire life. It was how she was raised. She didn’t openly criticize, disparage, or mock people who were not white, but the subtext in her body language was discernible – especially by me, because I was aware of her prejudices. I remember mom as a gracious, kind, but critical woman. She maintained friendships with people from her high school days and later, all of her workplaces. She was a generous friend to all. And yet, under the surface was an inability to accept people of other races as equals. I really blew her mind when, in 1960, I told her my social studies teacher was black, and I thought he was so cute I’d consider marrying a black man – cuteness being the major criteria for marriage at that point in my life.

I wrote a short story about my encounter with a black woman who lived in our neighborhood, yet was totally isolated. It was one of my ah-ha moments. It happened when I was seven and could form an opinion about it. I’ll post that story at a later date. To this day, I don’t know how or why she was in a segregated white neighborhood.

The bottom line is that I lived that dynamic history, including civil and military violence. I was a witness, a participant, as our country moved through huge social changes. Today it seems we are regressing back to some of those old disputes. As a country, we are not perfect, but we have genuinely progressed. I hope progression can continue without more violence and with respect for what has been accomplished.

According to statistics (which I don’t go according to very much), forty years ago, 80% of US citizens were white, and it is expected that by the middle of this century, white citizens will be a minority. I maintain that color will be less and less an issue as the world shrinks and people have children with people from other places, other ethnicities. Someday, we’ll all be the same lovely tan color, and discrimination will no longer be a factor based on color. I’m sure as flawed human beings, we’ll find other ways to discriminate.

Ho-hum. The cycle will be unbroken – just under new management and rules. So maybe that is why my days are getting shorter. I’ve seen it all before, and my soul is ready to move on to whatever is next. My mind and body, though, are not ready, so I will continue to observe the revolutionary evolution of our species with curiosity.

Life Under the Oaks Lavender Farm

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Last Friday, I took a little excursion to the Life Under the Oaks Lavender Farm in Oracle with two of my gal-pals who walk with me every Saturday. It is about thirty minutes north of us and a delightful way to spend a morning. The nine-acre mini farm has an Alice-in-Wonderland vibe, a trip to a fairyland.

A tour of the farm along dirt paths through lavender fields takes about thirty minutes. That is, if you are not sidetracked by all the interesting things along the way. The critters: donkeys, goats, sheep, and Thor, the resident dog – all love attention. The barn has artwork throughout, and from the walls and ceiling, big bunches of lavender hang to dry.

The entrance fee is a whopping $5.00. It is impossible to find entertainment at that price these days. It is easy to get caught up in the magic. There are giant oak trees that are over 100 years old. Rows upon rows of lavender are accessorized by whimsical art. We were there just before the “blooming season” that starts in June, so only a few plants were actually in bloom. That did not diminish our enjoyment of the entire farm as it is.

A storybook Cinderella carriage and a carousel horse that could have come out of Mary Poppins prompted several photos. A stack of teapots and a variety of lampshades that hang from trees were a sweet detail. Every few steps along the path, there is something that delights the eye and would tempt a fairy to stay like an artistic pink teacup chandelier. Small enchantments like carrot, strawberry and watermelon-shaped seats invite you to sit and rest on your tour.

  At the end of our wanderings, we had a refreshing pint jar of lavender lemonade and a box of lavender scones to eat as we sat at one of the tables under the trees. You can order a box lunch to eat there if you want a meal.

There is an amphitheater where you can envision sprites and fairies creating entertainments. A small shop that features products from insect repellent to goat milk soap, all scented with lavender, is at the end of the trail. The owners, Carolyn and John, informed us that this venue is used for plays, parties, weddings, and celebrations of all kinds. It is a summons for the imagination. 

They also have a tea shop, Lavender Mansion, in downtown Tucson on North 4th St near 4th Avenue. I’m planning a trip there in the near future.

Check it out at: Life Under The Oaks Lavender Farm Oracle, AZ https://www.lifeundertheoakslavenderfarm.com/

Quail for Breakfast

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Mr. Gambel-Quail, we call him Dan, struts along the sidewalk outside my office window. His copper crown and long black tail feathers that barely drag the ground make him look like royalty. His gray suit is carefully trimmed with brown and white wings. Of course, he sports the signature bobbing topknot. His white vest and the reddish-brown circular belt buckle at his belly complete his costume.  He wears a black mask as if going to a masquerade.

Dan and his family have lived in or near our yard for generations. This year, he and his wife, we call Marilyn (not terribly original on our part) had fifteen babies. My husband calls them “eggs on legs”. They begin life so tiny it is hard to believe they can strut and run just like their parents.

Marilyn is dressed more conservatively. Her brown and white ensemble is topped with a simple waving top feather on her head. I cannot figure out how that little body can produce so many offspring in one season. It is fun to watch the pair of adults shepherd their tiny brood across the yard, into the nature preserve, or occasionally across the street; mom in the front and dad follows to make sure all stay in line. Inevitably, there is a stray that he has to corral back into the group.

Sadly, during the time the babies are growing their number decreases rapidly. When we first see fifteen of them, by the end of a couple of weeks only five or six are still toddling after their parents. Predators like snakes, hawks, coyotes, and rodents raid their nest. Within three months, the remaining two or three chicks are fully grown and, on their own.

Early in the morning, I put bird seed on the top of our stone fence pillars. We sit with our coffee on the back patio and watch quails vie with doves, desert wrens and smaller birds for seeds. The quail usually prevail because they are the biggest. Smaller birds move on to other pillars or to the block wall when the quail arrive. Fortunately, we have lots of space to accommodate the hordes.

When the young quail are too small to fly up to the top of the pillars, the adults go up and scratch seeds down to them.  Day by day, we witness the little ones gain in size and skill until they can fly up to the top of the four-foot posts. We enjoy watching flight school practice. Standing in the yard, eyeing the top of the pillar, they observe their parents. Then they take turns flaring their tiny wings and hopping up in an attempt to fly. In only a couple of weeks, one makes it, then another, and soon all get to the top, sharing space on the pillar, like angels on a pinhead. So many of them crowd together on one pillar.

By the end of June, all the babies are grown, and we can’t tell the parents from the kids. When next year rolls around, the cycle begins again, and we are entertained for three months by the Quail Family saga. Occasionally, more than one family shares our yard, but with the Preserve so close, most families find their own territory.

Happy Birthday RBG

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It is Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s 93rd birthday. The Ides of March, 2026. In honor of one of the most iconic women in American history, I want to pass along some of her wisdom. She claims it came from her mother-in-law and pertained to the marital relationship. She broadened the sagacious advice to use during her life as a prestigious and honored member of the highest court in the United States.

I paraphrase here: “In every relationship in life, it helps to be a little deaf. This is not meant to be demeaning, belittling, or dismissive of the other person. It is a self-affirming way to achieve meaningful dialogue. Choose to be a little deaf towards thoughtless or unkind remarks. The type of remarks that are not backed by thought, but are rather reactive, emotional, and lacking reason or fact. Comments that do not serve the higher purpose of advancing an argument but rather attack the person and are derogatory or unkind in nature should fall on deaf ears. Reacting in anger will not advance your ability to persuade. Don’t raise your voice. Improve your argument. If the argument is sound and backed with logic, it should not have to be screamed. Its integrity should stand on its own.”

As it pertains to marriage, it is important to confront disrespectful, thoughtless words and behavior. No one should be a doormat to a partner’s demeaning, thoughtless words or actions. Sometimes the intention is to knock you off-balance, to make you give way. Don’t give anyone control over you. Even in the most loving relationship, emotion can overcome reason. As a long-term strategy, it is important to stay clear of an emotional, reactive response to make a counterpoint in a reasoned way and get to the heart of the matter that can be resolved without invective. Step away to clear your mind, then address the issue. Frame your response with the concept of strengthening your relationship. Speak with honesty, not hostility. Turn tensions to understanding. One way to do this is to write it down. Clarity comes with looking at your own words rather than trying to capture them in a swirling thought process.

As RBG would say, “get it right and keep it tight.”

While I may not agree with all of RBG’s views on the law and the Constitution, I do respect her thoughtful reasoning for her positions.

Headline: 1-13-26 Gambia vs Myanmar – UN lawsuit

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This headline popped up on my phone and caught my attention.

The UN’s top court has opened a landmark case against Myanmar, accusing the country of committing genocide against its Rohingya (Muslim) minority. The case, filed by Gambia, alleges that Myanmar’s military launched a campaign of violence in 2017 that forced over 700,000 Rohingya to flee to neighboring Bangladesh. The population of Myanmar is predominantly Buddhist, with 90% Buddhist, 6% Christian, 4% Islam, and less than 1% Hindu. 

The International Court of Justice (ICJ) in The Hague has begun the hearings, marking the first full genocide case it has taken up in over a decade. The hearings will span three weeks and will include oral arguments, witness testimony, and expert examinations. Gambia alleges the Rohingya community has been subjected to horrific violence and destruction, including atrocities such as gang rape, sexual mutilation and infanticide. The case is significant as it could set precedents for how genocide is defined and proven, and how violations can be remedied. The outcome of the case is expected to have broader implications, including potential repercussions for other genocide cases, such as South Africa’s petition against Israel over its war in Gaza.

Usually, I avoid political news, domestic and international, because it is painfully negative. But this headline stopped me cold because Myanmar is a Buddhist country being charged with genocide. That seems like a huge oxymoron, incompatible, incongruous.  Buddhism is considered the most peaceful religion worldwide with its emphasis on non-violence, inner peace, kindness, and respect for nature. This doesn’t even seem real.

What is happening in our world? Riots in Persia, riots in Venezuela, riots in the U.S., riots in Uganda. Can’t we all get along? Give Peace a chance? I have a hard time believing the rioting is the fault of the religions because all the major religions preach peace. The scriptures of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, all Abrahamic faiths, share messages that encourage unity and peace.

So, it means that bad actors in these countries are ginning up revolts based on criteria that they know will cause division within the population. I can’t say this is new news. It has happened over and over for centuries. Sometimes the issue is real, such as slavery in the U.S. Sometimes it is fabricated by lies like those that were the prelude to the hatred of Jews by a segment of the German population. How do we differentiate the real problems from those that are manufactured intentionally to cause internal strife within a country? What are the power struggles that motivate? Is it money, resources? I believe, more likely, it is an effort to consolidate power among the few to subjugate the many.

I don’t have answers. Just questions.

A Most Memorable Christmas

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Time to read: 5-7 minutes.

When Ken and I moved to southern Arizona to be full-time residents in 1997, we left behind our three kids, all adults, our two mothers, two brothers, and a sister, plus all their families. Throughout our forty years in Bellevue WA, as we established our family, we always spent the holidays with all of them, sharing meals and family traditions. Our first Christmas alone had a daunting, hollow feeling of abandonment, even though it was Ken and me who left the family for our Arizona life.

When we were first married, we spent Christmases just we two, and we didn’t miss anyone because we were so focused on each other and being together. However, after our first child arrived, we were always in the midst of our two families during the holiday season. I decided to find a way to shake the Arizona Christmas blues. I found an ad in the Arizona Star for volunteers to help make Christmas memories for children in Nogales. We signed up.

The patron of the volunteer operation was Jose Canchola, who owned several McDonald’s franchise restaurants. The volunteers all met at one in Nogales. Every year for thirty-one years until his death in 2008, Mr. Canchola hosted a Christmas party for underprivileged children from Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Jose was born in Chicago to immigrant parents and rose by hard work and persistence to become a business and political leader in Southern Arizona. Besides owning restaurants, he was a part-owner of the Arizona Diamondbacks major league baseball team, and served as mayor in Nogales for a time. His philanthropy was legendary.

On Christmas day, we left for Nogales in the dark morning hours, arriving about 7:00 am. We loaded our backseat with toys and some clothing to add to the contributions of other volunteers and businesses. We were taught a few rudimentary sentences in Spanish to use to help guide them. We learned what our jobs were and waited for the first busload of kids to arrive at about 8:00. We were told the children were from the very poorest part of Nogales and the mountains around it. Buses went into Mexico, collected children in and around Nogales, Sonora, and brought them across the border to Nogales, Arizona, to Mr. Canchola’s McDonald’s restaurant. Bus load after bus load of kids were dropped off to be fed a McDonald’s lunch and receive gifts of clothes and toys.

One large room of the restaurant was heaped with gifts for kids. Toys on one side and clothing on the other side. Each child was greeted at the bus by a volunteer and either taken into the dining room for lunch or brought into the big room to choose clothing, a backpack, and a toy. Then they switched, and the lunch group went into the big room, and the other group went for lunch.

I worked in the toy/clothes room, and Ken worked in the restaurant serving lunch. It was timed perfectly and, as one bus load finished choosing gifts and eating lunch, another bus pulled in with another group of kids. There were about thirty minutes between buses.  One group was loaded back onto their bus, returning to Mexico as the next bus was greeted. It was rapid fire with no time between bus loads. I cannot tell you how many children were served that day, but we didn’t stop until after dark, at least nine hours, probably fifteen busloads of kids.

I marveled at the fact that the parents of all the children had faith to put their kids on a bus headed to the U.S., knowing they would be cared for by strangers and returned with gifts and a full tummy. The children were as young as two, on up to ten or twelve. Some kids came in family groups with the eldest looking after one, two or three siblings. A few of the children asked if they could take a gift to a sibling who wasn’t able to come on the bus. Some took a sack lunch of a hamburger and fries back with them to siblings who were left behind. The kindness and generosity of everyone involved was a heart-lifting experience. We were all there for the kids.

Very few of the children spoke English well, but most understood it a bit. My job was to take a child to the clothing area and find for them a shirt, jacket, pants, or coat that fit and that they liked. Shoes were available if they wanted a pair. Most picked out one item of clothing, but a few chose two or three items. Then I took the child to the toy side of the room, and they picked out a toy for themselves or sometimes one to take back to a sibling. Each child expressed their happiness at receiving the bounty they took home, some with words, most with their smiling, happy faces.

Ken told me about little ones with drippy noses that he had to wipe before they had their meals. None were obviously sick, but they were not in the best condition either. All were eager to dive into their yummy Mickey D’s. Hamburgers and fries disappeared in minutes.

One small boy sticks out in my mind. While several of the kids had been part of this gift program for a year or two, many were there for the first time. Their bright eyes grew enormous when they took in the stacks of toys and clothes. One little fellow named Luis was about six. He went into the restaurant first, and when he finished his lunch, he came to the big room. I took his hand and welcomed him, and asked what he wanted for clothes. I’ve since forgotten it all. He picked out a jacket, tried it on, and decided to keep it. Then we went to select a toy. I don’t remember what he chose, but his little arms were full. I walked him out to the bus, he got on, turning to smile at me. I watched other kids load and was about to go back inside when a bundle of love tackled me around the waist. It was Luis. He left his gifts on the bus and jumped off to give me a goodbye hug. He looked up at me with the most gorgeous, sweet smile and said, “Gracias, amable dama.” My heart melted. Tears come into my eyes now as I write this, nearly thirty years later, because I can still feel his hug and the look in his big brown eyes. Another volunteer translated his words, “Thank you, kind lady.”

Ken and I drove back to Oro Valley that night, exhausted but with full hearts. We experienced the essence of Christmas. GIVING and SERVICE to others. Our family now included all the children we met that day, even though we will never see them again. It was and is the very best Christmas I ever had.

Sartorial Vagaries of Tucson

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We moved to Tucson from the Pacific Northwest, where gray skies and moderate temperatures abounded. We laughingly called rain, liquid sunshine, in an effort to not feel left out when the rest of the country experienced bouts, sometimes whole days of bright skies. The first year and into the second year in Tucson, I marveled that Dillard’s, Sears, and Penney’s stores offered sweaters and even jackets for sale. Why oh why would they have such useless apparel in the stores? I dressed year-round in shorts and sleeveless tops…for the first two years.

Then my blood became as thin as pomegranate juice. I discovered I NEEDED a sweater, especially when going into stores because of the excessive air conditioning. I needed a sweatshirt, sometimes a jacket, for winter, to wear with full-length pants. I began to need long underwear as temps dipped below 80° in November.

Relatives and friends who don’t live here think it strange. 80° is my bottom-line temperature now. Anything below that I consider frigid and requires supplementary attire to combat goose bumps. Long underwear is a staple. Heaven forefend if the atmosphere drops below 50°! I become bundled like an Eskimo. I scan internet ads for excursions to the equator.  Fortunately, those chilly temperatures only occur at night when I’m snug in bed with quilts and comforters and a warm hubby beside me.

On the other hand, I can comfortably live in 105°. Of course, I go from my air-conditioned house to my air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned store and back again. I’m not standing outside all day or working in the blazing heat. I worry about those who work in temps up to 115°. I asked Jeff, our landscape guru, how he and his team worked outside all day without expiring. He said they start early, at dawn, when the temperature is milder, and as temperatures rise, their bodies adjust. They are covered head to toe in protective clothing, so the sun doesn’t directly hit their skin, and wear big hats to shade their faces. They drink gallons of water. The dry desert heat evaporates perspiration before you even know you have sweated. They usually quit work around 3:00 pm, which is the hottest time of day.

Yesterday, dressed in a long-sleeve top under a long-sleeve sweater and long fleecy pants, I went to the grocery store. Bright sunshine lit my world. I watched people going in and out of the grocery store. I could pick out the snowbirds, winter visitors, immediately. They wore shorts and tank tops. They thought they were experiencing summer, that 68° and sunshine meant it was warm outside. I could only laugh to myself. It was exactly what I thought thirty years ago.

Thinning the Past

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Most of us have décor in our homes: Tchotchkes, pictures, bits and baubles, generational curios, memory laden echoes of our time on earth. My house is full of them. They bring a smile of remembrance. Occasionally I endeavor to thin them out. Endeavor being the operative word in that sentence.

Why, oh why, do I need a 10” yellow ceramic duckling in my curio cabinet? Because it was once a treasured keepsake for my mother. It was given to her by a friend she loved and lost many, many years before Mom died. I remember that friend, and I remember how much my mother loved the duckling. How can I toss it? It is a piece of my mom.

Some of the artwork was given as gifts by friends and family. We have porcelain figurines by Lladro given to us by our niece in Spain that are dear to our hearts. There are carved wooden figurines that Mom brought back after our trip to Germany. We have crystal and glass that dates back to great-great-grandparents.

Most of my walls are filled with photos of friends and family from great-grandparents to our grandchild. I can go to any room and reconnect with those people. We love to take out-of-town visitors to Tombstone and have a photo taken in old west period clothes. Our visitors have endured our obsession. Those pictures reside in various rooms. I chuckle about the memories every time I look at them.

We have collected artwork over our sixty-plus years of marriage that has significance for us. We remember the why and where of each painting and print. A print of praying hands by Albrecht Düerer (1508) graced my great-grandparents living room from the time I remember as a small child. On the back is written 1896. I assume that was when they acquired it.

Among our eclectic collection, we have two prints by Michael Parks, a Salvador Dali, a Diego Rivera, a Renoir, an Edward Hopper, native American drawings, as well as original paintings by close friends who are amazing artists. NONE of which I would part with willingly. I love looking at them every day.

Is it living in the past? Well, maybe, but we have so much more past than future, why not? I’m willing to add new mementos as they arrive.

It is popular among my friends to talk about divesting themselves of those “things” that won’t mean anything to their children or grandchildren. Much of my wall art and shelf dwellers were acquired when our children still lived with us and may evoke a memory or two. I admit the things we collected have no monetary value and will probably not be passed along. They still bring me pleasure and will until I die or become catastrophically forgetful. I want to enjoy them for the remainder of my life, and then, I really don’t care what they choose to do. I will be on to bigger and better things.

One of my favorites is a print of The Juggler by Michael Parks that is on the wall of my office. Our writing critique group had a prompt to write about a piece of artwork or a photo in our house, and what it means to us. This is a poem about The Juggler.

The Innocence of Childhood

Believe.

Anything is possible.

She balances on the precipice of flight

Into the season of ripeness;

Into a world

That doesn’t remember the magic.

She watches once more,

In wonder, the magician

Blindfolded to reality.

He balances

On the tightrope of life.

Juggling

Three lessons of childhood:

Love without borders, authenticity, curiosity.

She will carry these throughout life.

The Juggler by Michael Parks

The Miracle in a Drop of Rain

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After one of our dynamic monsoon deluges in September, I took a photo of a single drop of rain at the end of a leaf of the mesquite tree that resides in our backyard. Recently, I magnified the drop and, lo and behold, there was the reflection of the world upside down with the sky and clouds at the bottom, the fence reflected at the side, and trees showing above, or rather, below the fence.

I am no scientist, not physics, nor biology, or chemistry, so I cannot tell you why this raindrop reflects so perfectly the world around it – but upside down.  I call it a wonder, a miracle of nature, and I’m good with that explanation.  It is, in fact, beauty; a beauty that goes unremarked if not examined closely.

Raindrop hanging from end of a mesquite leaf
Raindrop magnified, showing the world around it.

Rain, a miracle in the desert, ushers in a plethora of natural marvels. Grass sprouts up on heretofore barren ground. Flowers, waiting for the moisture, bloom with exuberance. Our mountains, usually in a variegated wardrobe of browns, tans, gold, and grey, turn green. Our air is flooded with the intoxicating smells of the creosote bush and acacia tree. The scents bring with them feelings of serenity.  Scientists say the volatile oils of Sonoran Desert plants produce some of the most healthful scents in the world.*

Everyone smiles after a torrential monsoon – it just happens.

Last week I read an essay called Radiances** by Grace Little Rhys. In it, she extolls nature through the innocent observations of children; the radiance of sunlight, of jewels, of rainbows, and of flowers.

“Do you love butter?” say the children; they hold a buttercup under your chin, and by the yellow light that rises up from it and paints your throat, they know that you love butter.” *

We left monsoon season and are entering fall. I can’t say I miss the heat, but I do miss the thunder, the lightning, the cloudbursts, the drama, and the smells of monsoon. I’m so happy to have this photo of the drop of rain that captures the world after a downpour. I will look at it often, in wonder, as I await next year’s monsoon.

*Where does the distinct scent that comes with monsoon storms come from?

**Radiances by Grace Little Rhys. 1920.

Living and Dying in 3/4 Time

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One of my favorite philosophers, Jimmy Buffett, titled one of his early albums, Living and Dying in ¾ Time. There is a rhythm to life and there a rhythm to death. This is the chorus of his song Nautical Wheelers sung in ¾ time.

And it’s dance with me, dance with me, Nautical Wheelers

Take me to stars that you know

Come on and dance with me, dance with me, Nautical Wheelers

I want so badly to go.

In the 1970s, the Nautical Wheelers were a square dance group in the Florida Keys who danced the nights away under a tent. The song is about living life to the fullest, embracing the present with spontaneity, celebrating with people who live in joy.

These days, with news of friends and family dying, I’ve been thinking a lot about death. I am in the time of life when expiration dates are imminent. Baby Boomers are at the edge of eternity, and even those much younger reached the finish line ahead of me. The number of goodbyes has increased at a startling rate lately.

The first death I recall was my grandfather, Jesse Pottle Davis, 1888-1952, at the age of sixty-four, when I was six. I knew him, spent time with him, and loved him but was too young to understand death. It wasn’t until my father got down on his knees to hug me as close and hard as he could, crying, that I understood the depth and meaning of grandpa’s loss. My dad was my strength, and to see him so wretched was a life lesson. Dad died eleven years later at the age of fifty-two and my heartbroken reaction was much the same as his had been. The deepest sense of loss and agony. After several years of cardiac illness, his death from a massive heart attack was sudden and, I’m sure, painful

We are all living and dying. It is a fact. I recently started a journal titled 4,000 Days, not about counting forward days but counting backward from 4,000. I gave myself four thousand days to live, with a caveat for bonus days should I live past ninety-one, which is entirely possible. I did it after reading a poem by a friend titled Happy Birthday in which he comments that birthdays are not about accumulating years, but ticking them off toward the inevitable. Some people I shared the poem with found it a depressing thought. I found it to be funny and comforting in an odd way. The point is to make the most of each day as you count them down. A reminder to live each day. No one is given a timeline, a date certain. Even cancer patients are given hope and a range of time to look ahead. Our appointment to meet the hereafter remains a mystery to us. Thank heaven.

Many years ago, a psychic told me I’d live to be one hundred thirteen. At the time, I thought that sounded great. There is a definite difference between being alive and living. As I age, I’m experiencing losses I didn’t anticipate then. The loss of friends and loved ones. The loss of physical stamina. The lessening of my senses. I’m wearing out. If I lived to be one hundred thirteen with all the pieces and parts intact and all the energy of a forty-year-old, that would be great. But I discovered that isn’t in the plan. An old saying I read once said, “I prayed to live a long life, but I forgot to pray for good knees and a sound mind”. My full-time job now is to stay as healthy and active as possible so my long life (it is already pretty long) is not as a suffering, doddering vegetable in a wheelchair, but as a lively, engaged human who still enjoys each day.

My grandmother, Mabel, 1891-1977, lived to be eighty-six. The day she died she had driven one of her “old people” to their doctor appointment and to run errands. Her “old people” were ten or so years younger than she, but needed help. Grandma was there to help church friends and neighbors whenever she could. After Grandma was widowed, she lived with and cared for her parents until their deaths. When her two sisters and brother were widowed or divorced, they returned home, one by one, to all live together once again. It was a circus of the elderly who acted like teenage siblings most of the time. Grandma went home that day after taking her friend out and told her sisters she didn’t want dinner. She was feeling punk. She went to her room, laid on her bed, and died. Death came in its own time with no announcement.

My great aunt Molly, 1902-1999, told me something shocking on her 90th birthday. I was at her birthday party in Cheyenne, Wyoming. The house was full of friends and neighbors who came to celebrate her. She was very active in her church and community and in good health. She was on a bowling team and enjoyed going out for beer and pizza. As I was leaving, I told her I’d try to be there to celebrate her ninety-first. 

She took my hand in both of hers, looked into my eyes, and said, “I hope I’m not here.”

I was astonished. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“Everyone I care about is gone. I have been left behind, and I want to go,” she said.

Here she was surrounded by people who cared about her, and she didn’t want to live. Her husband had died. Her only child had died, and all of her lifelong friends had died. Even in the midst of a loving community, she felt alone. She didn’t get her wish; she lived to be ninety-seven.

 Now that eighty is upon me, I understand what she meant. Not that I’m anxious to die. I have lots of things I want to do yet, and I have the health to keep going. But I understand her perspective. It seems that every month I hear of another one, two, or three friends or acquaintances who passed over. I have no fear of death but a little of dying. I don’t want pain to be part of the process, and I know that is possible.

I’ve come to equate dying with being born. Both are struggles, voyages into the unknown. Both make major changes in existence. First you are in your mother’s warm dark comfortable womb with all your needs met instantly. Then you are pushed and shoved through a narrow opening into the light, bright, noisy, world with strangers around you, hands moving over you and a sense of loss of your warm safe world. It is a violent change. There is nothing smooth or easy about birth either from the baby’s or the mother’s perspective. It is a struggle to become a physical human. Slowly your soul must learn how to inhabit this new form with its new demands. Your brain must reach for new understanding. Your body needs to learn to be autonomous. 

Touch can be painful, sound can be painful, sight can be painful at first. It takes some getting used to. Then you live a life of ups and downs as you learn to navigate our world and stretch to learn what “being” means. It takes a while. For some more time than others. We all learn through experiences, the trauma, the pitfalls, physically as well as emotionally of being a person. That is balanced by the highs, the joys, and the pleasures of our body’s sensual life, along with the spiritual and intellectual journey our worldly life demands – it’s a big undertaking.

The body contracts illness or is broken, there is heartbreak, your spirit suffers on your journey through life. If you are lucky, plucky, and resilient, your life is relatively smooth. Then there are those who go through agony in their earthly existence. Who is to say which path you will be on? Which tune will lead your dance?

And then we die. We all die, no matter if we’ve enjoyed the journey or experienced hell along the way. I’ve heard firsthand stories of those who died and returned to the living. I’ve read stories of people who are pulled toward the hereafter and are given the choice to come back to our world. All the descriptions I’ve heard or read make the passage into death seem a lot like the passage into life. Being drawn into an unknown world.

My mother told me that she experienced something like that shortly after I was born. Her appendix ruptured, and they rushed her into emergency for an appendectomy. She was given an anesthetic and left her body. She said she floated above the doctors, looked down at her body and watched them operate. Then all went quiet again, and she knew she had to come back to her life, so she returned to her body and her brand-new baby girl.

Before she died at the age of eighty-four, Mom expressed to me on more than one occasion that she had a beautiful life, a fulfilling life. I was with her when she received her diagnosis of colon cancer. She chose not to take treatment. The doctors said she would live four to six months without it.

She thanked them and said, “I’ve been given my ticket home and I’m ready to go. All I ask is to be kept as comfortable as possible until the end.” 

My mouth was dry. My eyes were dry. My heart overflowed with love and the painful knowledge of her impending death. When we got back to the car, it was hard to speak, but I had to acknowledge Mom’s courage. I told her I was grateful to her for making the decision so willingly and quickly. Then the tears began to flow. I said I believed she saved herself and the entire family the stress, the anxiety of watching her go through painful treatments. She was always gracious, thoughtful, and above all, decisive in her life, and she continued that to the end.

She lived four months. She made a list of “last things to do” (Mom was a list maker). The list included going to her favorite restaurant for a margarita, having a ham sandwich from Honeybaked Ham, seeing the movie “Chicago”, and spending time with her granddaughter, who flew in from Seattle. She wanted to see the new office my husband and I moved our company into (even if it meant going upstairs, which was very hard for her), and about ten more things I’ve forgotten.

Mom resided in an assisted living complex, in a one-bedroom apartment about one mile from our house. I went there every morning before work and in the evening after work to visit and comfort her. I spent more time on weekends. She didn’t want to come to our house, but wanted me to stay with her and talk, mostly about my life. I had a friend interview her and write some of Mom’s memories down. We had talked a lot about her life and memories, but I wanted her to speak without me in the room to see if any new memories were triggered by new questions from a stranger. My friend, Linda, gave me a lovely transcript of their two meetings.

I have a friend, had a friend, Diane, who died with ALS. I cannot think of a crueler way to die, inch by bodily inch, with your mind and will still intact, watching yourself diminish. Diane took tap dance lessons at forty. She learned to play the piano at the age of fifty. She played everything from classical masterpieces to show tunes to Christmas carols. She hiked, traveled the world, and threw wonderful parties. Her annual Christmas party had a guest list that grew each year because people she knew clambered to listen to her play carols and sing along.  For two years after her diagnosis, she made every effort to continue all that until her body no longer responded to her will. She put everything she had into those last years. Her greatest pleasure, she said, toward the end, was being with her friends. 

She embodied the joyful rhythms of life for seventy years. Eventually, every part of her body was disabled, only her eyes moved. Her mind never dimmed. She communicated by a computer that she directed with her eyes. She was loved by many. A four-foot-ten dynamo, she was engaged in living and loving life until she was stopped by the ugly shadow of ALS threw its shade over her. Finally, she made the decision to pull the plug on her oxygen machine and gave her husband the day and time. Family gathered around her at home to say goodbye and express their love. Her beloved chocolate lab, Diamond, was there.

I miss her, her energy, her laugh, her brightness. I mourn that her light was extinguished too soon. She is with me in memory. Photos of us on trips, golfing, rooting on the UW Huskie football team at stadiums across the country, spa vacations, and things we bought on shopping trips together are part of my everyday life. The big copper coyote she bought as a housewarming gift when we moved to Arizona hangs on the guestroom wall; the crazy Christmas tree that sits on high-heel shoes that I decorate each year; the matching raincoats we bought in San Francisco (hers was hunter green, mine red). We were supposed to go to the football game in the rain, but decided to stay in the hotel to watch it on TV, and didn’t wear the coats at all on the trip. (Our husbands braved the game wearing big green trash bags.) So many reminders of her and our friendship are sprinkled like glowing stardust through my life.

Everyone has a different reason for wanting to be alive or allowing death to come on its own terms. I want to live with as much umphh as my friend, Diane, and with as much purpose as my grandmother, Mabel; then I’ll die with no regrets, and hopefully, with as much grace as my mother.