Luci--probably, a Dachshund Corgi mix, is a funny little creature.  Having observed her for four and a half years, I've been intrigued with her desire to please and her penchant for healing.  So I'm now doing a little "research" on Facebook reels--which is how I've guesstimated her DNA.

I subscribed to two groups--Corgi Lovers and Dachshund Lovers--and they post the kind of videos that sometimes make me laugh out loud.  Except for the loud and frequent barking of those breeds. Luci combines so many traits of both. 

Like a  Doxie, she has stubby legs, a sausage body, and gives me the side-eye anytime my actions don't match her lofty expectations.  WHY don't you want to go to walk again or throw my toys?  WHY don't you see that that steak you're eating is my favorite thing?  WHY do you disturb my slumbers by getting up at night and playing with papers?  

Also, there's very little she can't reach by jumping, and her 14 pound furry self takes up three-fourths of my bed.  When I watch a movie in bed, she burrows deep under the covers. Whether I'm gone for two minutes or two hours, she dances and jumps with delight when I come back.  Jan says that she frequently complains to her that I have abandoned her--again--but she doesn't hold it against me. 

Like both breeds, she's a fast runner.  But her favorite activity is observing and getting love from friends and strangers.  

Her body shape may be Doxie, but her coloring is pure Corgi.  Her big fan tail comes from who knows where?  Some observers have seen strains of Papillon.

Meek.  Undemanding.  Opinionated. Grooms herself like a cat.  Never asks for anything--unless you count the intense eye contact she gives me as she stands under the treat drawer. 

She understands English that applies to her.  "Do you want to go to walk?" sets off a routine of going to her toy basket, grabbing a celebratory toy, and running around the house in glee. 

Why, when I have the real deal, do I so enjoy these doggie reels so much?  Not just to explore her possible pedigree, though that's very entertaining.  Mainly because, while Luci's sleeping, I want more of her, or more like her.  If I had more energy, a bigger yard, and someone else to help, I'd get her one of those as a playmate, maybe two. 

She and Carma love each other in their way, but their personalities are very different.  Carma is exuberance personnified--or doggie-fied. Her tail is a wonder to watch, a veritable windmill of pleasure. 

Carma has one speed: full on joy in motion.  

Luci is moodier.  Maybe just the tiniest bit neurotic in her separation anxiety.  

Carma eats anything--and I mean ANY thing.  Luci is a delicate picky eater who turns up not only her nose but her whole head when she loudly resorts to chomping kibble if nothing better is forthcoming.  As she chomps--that's when I get a certain disapproving look.  "You have no idea how much I hate this food!" 

Today we stopped in at the Green Door Thrift Shop.  I could hear the clerks saying to each other, "Luci's here!" and then they all gathered around.  One picked her up and put her on the counter.  For about 20 minutes, two 80-something regulars pet her and hugged her and cooed like little girls getting to pet a puppy.   No wonder Luci likes thrift shopping! 

"Everybody's Girl"

Walking past the house of Kellyanne's family, Jan and I noticed that large green bows had been wrapped around the trunks of trees in their yard and in the community garden across the street--a take on the "yellow ribbons around the old oak tree." 

We'd just heard from two sources that two of the eleven still-missing girls had been found in a tree in Comfort, miles from the camp--a story we were about to learn wasn't true.  Improbable as it was, we were so hopeful for those few minutes. We could picture the family coming home intact, seeing the neighborhood wrapped in Cambridge Elementary green.  

The two women (friends of Kellyanne's mother) were moving down the street, wrapping more trees. When they saw how moved we were by their project, they  gave us each a green plastic tablecloth from the Dollar Tree, so that we could wrap our own.  

Jan shared a comment a woman at her church had made: "Kellyanne is now our girl, our daughter, our granddaughter."  

What if she's safe? what if she comes home? what if we can now get to watch her grow up? 

 

She's everybody's girl. 

Every day in Gaza, in Ukraine, and in war-battered places all over the globe, children die, starve, disappear, and suffer in ways we can't even imagine. 

What if we had the capacity to feel that every one of those children are "ours"? 

No human mind is capacious enough to hold them all. But what if?  

When the worst  happens, it's human nature to imagine our daughters, our granddaughters, in the same peril. 

To see our girl's father on the news, searching desperately through rubble and saying, "She's got to be here!" how can we not weep?  He's one of us, he's our son, broken in the worst possible way. 

Two weeks ago, I passed a house I walk past every morning.  I'd never met the people who live there, but on that morning I watched a festive cluster of people outside taking pictures--parents and three little girls.

In each window of the van, a name was scrawled with shoe polish.  

The three girls were posing, each under the window with her name on it.  

I slowed my gait to watch the simple ordinary moments of a family getting ready to go someplace, three little girls dressed up like Easter morning, their parents calling their names.  Hurry up, nice, stand there, stand by your name.

I only remember one of the three names, Kellyanne. 

We exchanged no words, only smiles, but I kept thinking about them, as if storing the whole happy tableau for future reference.  

I would likely not have recalled any of this except for today's tragedy.

As I walked Luci late this afternoon, I spoke with a neighbor who told me more of what I already knew about yesterday's  flood that had caused the entire Camp Mystic to be evacuated.  "Over 700 girls had been camping at the church camp when the Guadalupe rose too fast for anyone to escape," he said.  

Jan had told me earlier that 23 little girls were still unaccounted for, and one of them lives on our street.  Her first name--Kellyanne. 

If I am this gutted after only seeing Kellyanne that one morning, I can't even imagine the devastation of all who love her and are still holding out hope that she's alive.   Her young parents, her two little sisters.  Her teacher and classmates at the elementary school at the end of our street. 

The continuing rain today, the grey skies, Mother Earth weeping.

Little baby gratitudes

I believe that what most people want is to have someone value whatever it is we have to give. 

If it's food, we want those we share it with to love it.  Same with flowers, a scarf,  or even a story we have to tell. 

While we can't fake it, (sometimes what another has to give isn't our cup of tea), we'd all do well to find at least a kernel of delicious or good or worthy in the gifts we are given from other people.

But we're maybe too tired to remember to tell the giver that we liked.....fill-in-the-blank.  The dinner, the pie, the story, the song.  

Years ago, traveling to Georgia, I left my car unlocked with my pocket book in it--just to look at something a few steps away.  I don't remember what.  

I saw a kiosk, a black woman inside selling cokes, and realized I was thirsty.  And so I ordered one, only to realize that I had no money on me.

"No problem," she said,  "I'm giving it to you."

I protested--my car was just there, I could go get a dollar, be right back.

She looked at me with a look of mock-reproach and said, "Girl, don't take away my blessing!"

My good fortune was to find a drink, but her good fortune, or blessing, was the joy of giving something away.  I should have said--and ultimately did say--just "Thank you!"

"Corruption, Cruelty, and Chaos" Joaquin Jefferies, July 3, 2025

The passing of Trump's Big Ugly Bill undermines the best of America and will cost millions of lives worldwide, but what does he care?  Americans picked a creepy reality show guy who doesn't give a damn. Even most legislators who privately claim not to like it voted for it for fear of losing their Big Ugly Jobs and Big Ugly Money. 

I used to be goosebump patriotic.  Not for the bombs bursting in air part, but for the amber waves of grain part.  

I used to be religious.  Not the fear of hell part but the love and generosity part. 

Today I can't align my deepest values with the kind of religion co-opted by the most fundamentalist branches. (I am glad to have grown up in church before it married nationalistic and self-serving patriotism.)  July 4th rah-rah doesn't do anything for me since Trump happened. I'm embarrassed that our country has sunk so low in the eyes of the world. 

The religious right today (not all religious people by any means, but the loudest of them) are doing everything they can to shove their evangelical beliefs down the throats of the country, posting The Ten Commandments in classrooms while withholding food from needy children in those classrooms.  

The very word, patriotic rankles, suggesting a loyalty to the "father" land.  I deeply love this country for its beauty and its potential, but until it's true, I can't say the words "liberty and justice for all."   

This Maga-Mega-Bill may be the most disgusting move yet--though it's hard to rank Worst in Nothing But Ugly when there's something new and cringeworthy every single day.  

The Trump Supreme Court, the Trump cabinet, the Trump Republicans in Congress, the Trump voters--all are culpable :

Withholding funds for food and medicine from people who won't survive without it.

Dumbing down education.

Ripping away reproductive freedoms.

Appointing and electing criminals--including the recent Justice department appointment of one of those convicted, then pardoned, for January 6th. 

Privileging the already privileged and impoverishing the already impoverished.  

Closing of rural hospitals and clinics.

Refusing to continue to provide life-saving vaccinations and AIDS medicines to those who need them.

Dismantling USAID--which has been doing good work for 60 years.

ICE agents attacking innocent people at their jobs to deport them. 

The damage of this Big Ugly Bill will be felt for generations--and all of this will flow from the Big Ugly Magic Marker of the current president of the United States. 

Road Trip in August, Buckle Up!

At 2 am this, I woke up to the sound of moaning, my own, it turns out.  Before I got this gizmo in my back, it wasn't uncommon to wake up moaning, take meds, and go back to bed.  Post-gizmo, it hasn't been happening.

When one has robotic parts, I learned, she should charge up everything before going to bed. 

I tried for two hours to stimulate a conversation between the device, the handset, the communicator, and the recharger--but they refused to talk to each other.  So I returned to my Pre-Gizmo regimen, and finally--after doing the NYT word games, letting Luci out, and ripping up a size 4 skirt from a thrift store for a book cover--I fell asleep.  

Today I called the gizmo company. An hour-long tutorial got me back on track. 

I was feeling so good that I went to the bakery and stopped in at a little shop that sells lampshades made out of marbled paper.  Going back to the car, I stumbled and fell on the uneven pavement.  No harm done, just felt ridiculous down on the sidewalk.

Out came a customer from the bakery and the manager at Cappy's, two kind men who helped me to my car and offered to get me a drink.  

Next stop was Herweck's Art Supplies for handmade paper, so I came home to get my partner--as she's always ready for a field trip.  As I neared my house, I thought someone had parked an orange car in my driveway, but it turned out to be Jan's big thick birds of paradise!

Our adjoining yards  are confections of colors: red bougainvillea, hot pink crepe myrtles, bright orange birds of paradise, yellow Esperanza and lantana, blue plumbago, everything in full bloom and plant- ecstatic after our recent rains! 

Herweck's has a wonderful assortment of handmade papers.  I spent an hour shopping for supplies while Luci soaked up attention and back scratches from clerks and customers. 

The pleasure of poking around, as I did today, helped me decide to cancel my flight to Georgia and drive instead. I can spend a whole day driving on the Natchez Trace, another day in beautiful pet-friendly-everything Ocean Springs.

After three years of no road trips, I'm kind of over-the-moon excited about hitting the road again!  

Summer Sunday in San Antonio

Thanks to my new robotic device, this has been an awesome week! I'm calling this The Change of Life--a huge relief after almost three years of foot pain.  I'm grateful to modern medicine for inventing a device that starts at the spine and moves all the way to the toes! 

I still monitor break-through pain occasionally, but the post-anesthesia fog, sciatica, and foot pain have all virtually disappeared. 

Yesterday, I made four books; the day before three! Spending less time managing and relieving pain made me appreciate the  impact of chronic pain on so many people.  This week (knocking on wood as I write that!) has made me appreciate every hour of being able to do creative things--and social things!

Last night, Jan and I--and a few other friends--attended an extraordinary concert by Agarita and Imani Winds.  Two other nights, I met friends for dinner.  For so long, my social life has been stunted and unpredictable, and it was great fun to get out in the world and enjoy my friends. 

When Carlene was almost exactly my age, she wrote a book called Random Renderings of my Rememberings. She typed out her stories on beautiful deckled-edged stationery and packed them in a pink flowery box.  I have treasured that box for years and often taken it out to read a particular chapter that spoke to me.  But now!  Now I am, age-wise, where she was when she wrote it--and it touches me profoundly, like music.  

She writes about her family growing up on a farm in Georgia--and about the comfort of being with her beloved grandmother, Cana, after her 10-year old brother died.  At the age of seven, that death impacted her in so many ways.  As she grew older, she loved going to Cana's house "in town" and being close to church and school. 

I am turning off the horrific news and spending a quiet Sunday finishing this book!  It's the mother of my impulse to write this blog, a way of saving all the treasures and life lessons along the way. 

Here is an excerpt:

A Simple Sentence

If I were a writer, it would happen in the morning. There's an interlude between waking and rising when prayers and memories mingle and merge into a story.  Then an alarm rings, "Write it!"

A few days ago, in a state of melancholy and concert about aging friends, someone asked, "Why do people have to die?"

And so, a spark appeared this morning--a time I felt the reality of the statement, "You are going to die."  Fortunately, this was not relayed by an oncologist saying, "You are going to die" or even a sermon plea from a pulpit promising "You are going to die."

With an awareness as real as the tall steel tripod that held a windmill while it did its pumping work, or the simple barrel bearing weight for a long wide board to be a see-saw, the word, are, took the shape of a fulcrum--and still moves me back and forth like a lever. 

This sentence is not something I dwell on, even now, but the thread of it that settled in me along the way, and with which my life experiences have been quilted, is the support that keeps me afloat and healthy.  Mu gratitude could fill a lake.

February 23, 2002

Grantchester

Pretty sure Geordie is on his third vicar-assistant in Season 10.  

It's never quite clear how Inspector (Geordie) Keating manages to make friends with each new vicar and drag him into the murder case, but in all 10 seasons, it's a detective and a preacher who become partners in crime solving.  

Every episode has a murder, of course--or what would Geordie do?  But the charm of this Masterpiece series rests on the interactions, romances, and collisions among the characters in Grantchester. 

We have Leonard and his partner who finally came out as gay a few seasons back.  The on-again, off-again relationship between Geordie's secretary and one of the detectives on his team. Geordie's marriage to Cathy has had some bumps along the way, but they now seem solid --just when Geordie discovers his son dressing up like a girl in this season.

And of course, there is the college of Oxbridge, site of a few random murders.

Over ten years, the vicarage housekeeper (Mrs. M) has moved from a typical homophobic woman of her times to a fiercely protective mother-figure to Leonard.  The developments in the characters along the way has made this one of PBS' best shows. 

"Error Occurred"--again.

 I'm having technical difficulties--again!

Below is a video of Elena, our rodeo girl, racing around barrels!

But you can't see it because it won't upload.  Trust me, the girl is GOOD on horseback.  

Theodore, Franklin, Eleanor, and Norwegian royalty

I'm spending my weekend with the Roosevelts, thanks to public television.  (Trump and his minions would have PBS and NPR defunded, of course, as part of his mission to make Americans as small-minded as possible.) I can't even imagine what I'd have done without these three platforms for lifelong education and inspiration. 

A pair of excellent counterpoints to the focus on our current administration (if you use that word, loosely) are these two offerings on PBS: :

The Atlantic Crossing 

and

Ken Burns' The Roosevelts, An Intimate History

In the former, "inspired by historical events," eight episodes dramatically recreate the years of America and Norway pre- and through World War II.  While the madman Hitler takes over Europe with megalomania and excruciating cruelty, all nations are in peril.   

The crown prince of Norway and his family cross the Atlantic in 1939 and are befriended by Franklin and Eleanor.  A year later, all hell breaks loose in Norway--a country who thought itself safe due to its neutrality.  

Back when history was taught as dull facts, I was never interested.  But now, thanks to the brilliance of historians and storytellers like Ken Burns and David McCollough and so many others, history comes to life.  

After watching Atlantic Crossing, I couldn't resist re-watching the Ken Burns special all over again.  I'd watched it years ago, but that was before we lived in a country with its own madman at the helm.   

I highly recommend both of these.