Appreciation, a lost art

I came across an article I saved from 2013, about how Civil War benefits are still being paid out to a couple of people, two children of Civil War veterans. Of course, they are "children" now in purely the semantic sense, they are elderly, in their 80s.  The benefit amount is about $876 per year, which is approximately $45 in 1872 money.  

It made me think of all the lost pensions of those who worked for companies that took a dive in the past few decades.  Or all the companies that mismanaged/merged/acquired/re-located themselves out of any financial responsibility toward so many who worked for them loyally for so long.  

Like sheep, we've come to accept that treatment as part of doing business with business.  We really have no other choice. No one protects our interests in this.

Those who are government-haters and corporate-lovers should take heed.  

Wouldn't it be wonderful to live in a world where businesses and corporations would show the same sense of respect and duty that our government does toward those who work for it? Toward those who deserve it? And to keep paying for over 100 years to survivors?  

I know that $876 per year is not a living wage. But it represents an acknowledgment of a promise. One that will be kept as long as necessary.  What business these days can provide the same?

If Affluenza, why not Ebpoora?

OK, you'll have to bear with me--lots of thoughts going down here, but I do have a point. 

Following a more-than-lovely Thanksgiving holiday, shared with my family, for the first time in our home, lots of disturbing news events reared their heads to squelch the warm fuzzies.

I'll recap a bit, although no one likes to focus on this stuff:

•     A local woman, poor and ill, was refused entry in a motel, despite pre-payment for same by a third party. No, not her pimp.  

•     A hit-and-run driver killed a local elderly janitor pedestrian, who was on his way to work downtown.    

•     A woman was stabbed in the back while she was scraping ice off her windshield.

•     Another woman was stabbed in the back in broad daylight near the Cinerama.         

•     Several high-profile killings of black men, for no apparent reason, other than lack of a better idea.   

And on and on. The inequity of some of these incidents pains me. I mean, if certain rich, white kids are caught driving drunk and killing people, for instance, a phrase is coined to excuse their behavior:  Affluenza. And everyone nods and smiles and says, "Well, then, that's completely understandable."

Why can't they equally coin a phrase such as Ebpoora? It seems to me that lifelong, gut-wrenching, brain-deadening poverty should be a more justifiable excuse for some folks' behavior. Instead, poverty is an excuse to be mistreated or killed.  

When constant depressing news has me stumped for writing ideas, or rather, not stumped for ideas, but preferring not to rage on and on about injustice and stupidity, etc., as I'm wont to do, I turn to my trusty DARE (Dictionary of American Regional English). I only have only one volume, D-H, but it provides a wealth of ideas. (Volume I, "Intro - C" is on my wish list).

As if channelling the rank thoughts in my brain, devilry, if you will, the first selections that caught my eye were was in the "devil" category. Pages and pages of devil-this and devil-that.  Devil in the bush. Devil's Bit. Devil's Claw. Devil's Guts. Devil's Snuffbox. Devil's Shoestring. And they're nearly all plants.  Who would have thought that mere plants could inspire such perfidy? I guess they're named for such characteristics as being sticky, stinky, poisonous, or deadly. 

Which links perfectly with what's going on in the news.  I think society has been eternally dabbed with the Devil's Paintbrush. 

When being nice is, sometimes, not so much

My hubby has always prided himself in being in shape. Not in a macho, bulky, grunting, monosyllabic kind of way, but just in a way that he can.... and here of course I wish I could say....keep up with me....but he's way beyond me with all the myriad of orthopedic peccadillos I'm beset with....that he can walk, hike, bike and eliptic with ease and pleasure. (I can also do those things, but sometimes not without excessive monosyllabic grunting).

And he can crouch, oh my goodness, can he crouch. I envy him so. I don't think the new millennium has ever seen me in a crouch. Not without having an all-hands-on-deck propping me up kind of desperation.

I did win a Limbo contest in my mid-30's, so there's that.

But this isn't about me.

In hubby's hey-day, many years ago, he'd bike some 40-50 miles weekly, plus jog about 15 miles. Mostly he traversed the beautiful hills and dales of Issaquah, back before the hills and dales became endless rows of homes, condos, divided highways, and other vagaries of urban living.

He rode the notorious Chilly Hilly.

He rode from Grand Junction, Colorado to Moab, Utah on a 5-day mountain bike ride.

He prided himself on, and was grateful for, his ability to be active in ways that were nature-loving and soul-inspiring.

Even now, when he's had to slow down a bit (but there's still the crouching, have I mentioned the crouching?), I can tell that he has the glorious muscle memory of his previous jaunts.  He's no slouch, for sure, and can out-anything me.

So, here's the "nice" part. Picture a man, who sees himself as a 20-something (and in a lot of ways could still compete with a 20-something), active, happy, feels in many ways-- true ways--that he still "has it." Feels good about himself. Picture this man in a grocery store, when a small child runs up to him and hugs the man's legs. Suddenly a voice cries out, "No that's not grandpa, that's someone else's grandpa."

Please note:  we do not have children, we do not have grandchildren. We are not sad about this.

And now picture this same man, this time jogging through the remnants of his old haunts, now a nice wooded trail through a housing development. He was huffing and puffing a bit navigating a slight hill. Suddenly a babe comes up from behind him. A babe babe. And says to him as she whizzes past, "Good for you, keep it up!!"

So, sometimes being nice, is, well, not so much. :)

When did libraries become a madhouse

OK, I know that's definitely Auntie-PC. I don't think we can even use the term "madhouse" anymore. I was originally going to say, "when did libraries become a free-for-all?", but then libraries have always been free, for all, so there's no point there. Not that that's ever stopped me before. 

I remember a day when you'd receive an abrasive SHUSHHHH from the librarian, for simply ruffling papers too loudly. When the librarian, always a commanding and imperious presence at the time, directed her penetrating stare at you, you'd want to crawl inside the War and Peace and hide forever.

Libraries were peaceful, a bastion of quiet study and reflection. A place where you could learn stuff. And think about stuff.

But nowadays, we've seen children racing and caterwauling throughout the aisles, older folks talking and laughing as if at a comedy club, other folks spreading their stinky tuna fish salad sandwiches and Fritos all over a work table, men stomping through proudly displaying their AK-47s (oh, I feel SO safe), and just general bacchanal-ish behavior more suitable, say, for a family reunion.  A good family reunion.

When did libraries find it so acceptable to tolerate, and by extension, condone such riotous actions? 

Someone locally got into serious trouble for raging about the behavior at the University of Washington library. Granted, he peppered his concerns with fierce expletives and threats, never a good idea. But I can certainly understand what would motivate a person, having a much less refined than mine *ahem* gauge of proper etiquette, to boil over from frustration.

I'd personally love to see more quiet around. Especially in the library.

The Town Called Pysht

There once was a ghost town called Pysht;

Perched near a small river with fysht;

Not much there to see,

It's quite anomaly

but

If its tree falls on you, you're squysht

OK, I'm not right in the head--we won't quibble about that.

I was researching old ghost towns for a new novel I'm working on and came across this uniquely-named gem. How can you notice a town called Pysht and not be charmed? 

Not that it's not already well-known that Washington has more than its fair share of oddly-named-and pronounced cities. Puyallup, Sequim, Spokane, you all know those. But I had never heard of Pysht before. 

Spread all across the country are small towns like this: former mining towns, towns that just missed the highway bypass, towns built around a business or entertainment venue that died. Every time I see one or read about one of these towns, I get a spooky, other-world feeling. Especially when I see rickety remnants of buildings, homes, tools, toys and other possessions lying around. I feel hushed, like I want to soak in all of the history, and listen for the stories of the spirits that linger there. 

But instead I'm inspired to pen an atrocious limerick.

The Good God Sugar Scare

Bad, bad Auntie. Go ahead and say it.

But, hey, I've been busy writing, editing and polishing up my self-published novel.

And now it's on the market, Spirit of the Mercury Dime, and it is said that ya gotta blog in order to expect any sales other than to good old ma and pa. (You always can rely on those two, dear souls).

And I certainly have enough to rant about, so why not share it with the world? Right-o, that's what I say!

Today's rant concerns one of the deadliest substance to strike mankind--I'm talking about SUGAR, of course.  Did you read about this? Studies show (ah, look it up I don't know who the "study-ers" are, but it was right there on the news) that a normal weight person should consume no more than 25 grams of sugar daily. Now, perhaps if you're talking weed or some other such substance, 25 grams might be nirvana, but we're talking 25 grams of sugar, table sugar, sucrose, that white stuff in the bunny canister on your kitchen counter.

FOUR HERSHEY KISSES! Honest to pete, that's about what 25 grams of sugar entails.

And now "they're" telling us that this sugar habit is undermining the very fabric of our lives. Ruining families, destroying children, causing chaos in the streets. Turning us all into lazy fatties.

Well, I'd like to say a few words about "they." We all know who "they" are. They're the same folks who turn a blind eye to those digging filthy gas wells that cause earthquakes and putrid water, the ones who are cutting off our jobs, those who eliminated manufacturing from our country, stole our pensions (and have a greedy eye and drooling mouth on our social security), those who ruined our housing investments, and bought all of our politicians.  "They" love those folks, those folks can do no wrong. Never a peep against those folks.

But SUGAR?!!  Sugar is a deadly menace and must be destroyed.

Sorry, not buying it. Well, yes, it's Halloween and I am indeed buying it. Sugar, that is.

Remember eggs?? My neck still has whiplash from seeing eggs bounce back and forth from the "Yes" to the "Good God No" column. I think it's now Yes......3...2....1...

Enjoy your sugar, folks. In moderation, perhaps, but that 25 grams stuff is nonsense. Sugar has energy and heaven knows we all need more of that.

By the way, did you realize that 20% of your caloric needs is used by your brain? Sit on that, Fitbit.

Cheers.