Twenty years ago, I’d have taken to the streets in protest, but today, given the firehose of outrages, I wouldn’t know what to write on my cardboard sign. Outrageous headlines sizzle across my laptop screen like multi-headed dragons. So, I look for diversions. I try and keep moving. I go to the gym, walk, dance ballet, work in the yard, shop for groceries, come home and cook.

My friend, Susan, recently re-introduced me to my sketch pad, a fabulous diversion. Susan is a real, for-hire, portrait artist who paints in oils. She kindly invited me to make art with her—twice at Jordan Lake Dam, and most recently in her studio.

She set me up in a comfy chair on the second floor of her old farmhouse with its cherished northern light—light that doesn’t change value as the sun tracks across the sky.

We draw actual objects as opposed to doodling out of our heads, so I brought a wooden elephant from home. Across the room, Susan immersed herself in the plump essence of a baby bok choy. For a blessed hour, I focused soley on dark and light values, doing my best to coax an inanimate being to life.

Bob and I came of age in an era of moral clarity in which good people protested against racism, sexism, and war. Fast forward to now, and we are mired in the same tar pit of might-makes-right, but we lack the exhilarating ferver—the focus—we had fifty, or even twenty years ago.

In my defense, I say, “I don’t know which dragon head to go after,” and “It’s all so fuzzy, this shit storm of outrages,” and “What good would it do?” and, “If I think about it too hard, I’ll lose my mind. How will that help anyone?” and “Best I keep my head above water, best I focus on the people close to me.”

I often think about the good Germans, about how they turned blind eyes to Hitler’s rise in power. See How Hitler Dismantled a Democracy in 53 Days. I used to think a Nazi holocaust could never happen here in the United States.

But now, with talk of imprisoning migrants at Guantanamo, I’m not so sure. And so, like German citizens of the ’30s, I see what’s happening and avert my eyes, focused instead on making soup and drawing elephants.

As we inch closer to Inauguration Day, I’ve been trying to imagine the best possible outcome, keeping myself informed without burying myself in bad news. I was hoping that a focus on the joys within my safe, community bubble would minimize the horror building in my chest.

But, there comes a point.

When the President-elect expressed his desire to aquire Greenland without ruling out military force, I could no longer contain myself. I was shocked that the presumptive Commander in Chief, the man with his finger on the nuclear button, has such ambitions.

Nearly three years ago, I watched in horror as Putin invaded Ukraine, not for one minute imagining that The United States might one day follow in Russia’s footsteps. I want to believe that my conservative friends, neighbors, and family members are as horrified as I am. I doubt they would have voted to invade a sovereign nation.

I don’t know what I can do to stop my country from becoming a mighty bludgeon, but I don’t want any part of it. I am not in lockstep with the brutish aims of a pathetic megalomaniac. For what it’s worth, my silence is broken.

We were also thinking of Jimmy Carter because, just before Sunday dinner, we had learned of his death. “One hundred years old,” we said, “My my.” And, “Too bad we passed up that plate.” The last time we carried the trash, we nearly brought home a plate with President Carter’s face on it.

On that day, there had been two men standing next to the trash compactor when we walked over with our garbage. One, a taxpayer like us, had just handed a commemorative plate—the kind of thing you hang on the wall—to the attendant. “You need this plate,” said the attendent with a smile that revealed some missing teeth, and I took it from his outstretched hands to be polite. “It’s got all the presidents up until Carter,” he said. “Carter was my favorite president,” I said, but Bob and I both agreed that we couldn’t use it, and I handed it back.

I cast my first-ever presidential vote for Jimmy Carter in 1976 and was thrilled when he won because I believed his values resonated with mine. He proved me right during the four years of his presidency by choosing diplmomacy over violence, by installing solar panels on the White House, and by advising Americans to save energy by turning down the heat and wearing sweaters.

My mother was also pro-Carter. So much so, that she got on a bus full of Pennsylvania college students bound for Washington DC to witness his inauguration. She took notes and wrote it up for the Shippensburg University Slate. Thanks to her, I can almost taste the air from that day.

Here’s a sample from Inaugural Traveler Finds Hope for America :

It was 11 a.m. when the band struck up the first song, “Praise the Lord.” This triggered the young boys and girls to scramble into the trees. One girl looked ready to join them but her mother held fast to her pigtails.

A year or so later, on a drizzly May 3rd, 1978, Bob was lucky enough to meet President Carter. He and a friend had made a solar collector out of scavanged material, including beer cans for a class at the University of Colorado’s School of Environental Design. When Jimmy Carter saw the collector, he quipped that his brother would have approved (brother Billy famously loved beer!).

It made Bob happy to meet Jimmy Carter because he felt that Jimmy was what our country needed. Like me, Bob felt that their values aligned.

Sadly, Ronald Reagan won the next election and reversed direction. He had the solar panels removed from the White House, he slashed coroporate taxes, cut finding to the Solar Energy Research Institute (now NREL) where Bob hoped to someday work, and did away with energy credits. Bob’s undergrad in Environmental Conservation became nearly worthless, prompting him to pursue a business degree.

Ultimately, we decided to take our chances and carry the trash. After we emptied the trunk, we sauntered over to the Swap Shop for a look-see and some idle chit chat with the attendant. He pointed at the flag and said, “Someone asked me why I had it like that.” “At half mast?” I said and he nodded. “Because of Jimmy Carter?” I asked and he nodded. “Now I wish I’d have taken that plate.”

He got a strange look in his eyes and started walking towards his office. “Do you want it?” he asked over his shoulder. “Yes!” I said, following like a puppy. Turns out he decided to hang it in his office until he could find a proper home for it. He pulled it off the wall, handed it to me, and I gave him a gleeful squeeze.

My family was very pro-Carter. So much so that my mother joined a bus full of college students headed to Washington DC for his inauguration. Here is the article she wrote about that day.

INAUGURAL TRAVELER FINDS HOPE FOR AMERICA

Janice Illo

The Slate – Shippensburg University’s weekly newspaper

February 1, 1977

It was around 7 am as I sleepily found a seat with my two young sons on one of the five Shippensburg State College student buses headed for the Presidential inauguration in Washington.

Questions and thoughts began awakening me as I watched each pair of eyes search for a seat. What were they thinking? The year 1976 was such a whirlwind, the first Presidential election after Watergate; the Republican and Democratic conventions running neck and neck with the Olympics; Carter, running all the way on hope and just making it ahead at the finish line; and all within the setting of the country’s exploding Bicentennial celebration.

I began talking with these eager, knowledgeable, young people as they headed to add a live historical experience to their knowledge. As we talked, I was interested to learn that the group was mostly made up of students majoring in elementary education, government or social welfare.

The students were soberly optimistic about the next four years and were realistically aware that the term may have its dangers. They all agreed that anything could happen, with the assassinations of the 60s still etched in their minds. The hope was strong in them, though, as they talked about what the new President might accomplish.

The group was a happy one and a delight to be with. Their quick eyes detected everything of interest that passed by the bus windows. Their witful comments made the ride speed by. As the bus paused for a light on Constitution Avenue, cheers rolled through from end to end as each one caught sight of a pretty, slight, fully uniformed police woman at the wheel of a police car full of robust policemen.

We arrived! Some of us had the good heads to get tickets to enter the Capitol gates. Others stood outside, including me. We even forgot to bring my son’s invitation. I wasn’t sorry, though, for there was much to see among those thousands of outside people.

We climbed the icy steps of what looked to be a law building to get a better view. The day was bright and clear but cold. An Indonesian family sat huddled on an icy step in a sleeping bag.

Another man was wrapped in a green blanket.

A well-dressed man wore a plastic bag over his head with a hole cut at his mouth.

Men were shouting and holding up hats and gloves for sale. Steam poured forth from thermoses. Newsmen were in and out, getting their captions.

It was 11 a.m. when the band struck up the first song, “Praise the Lord.” This triggered the young boys and girls to scramble into the trees. One girl looked ready to join them but her mother held fast to her pigtails.

The people, as they stood around with their banners and signs stating their ideals and prides, were happy but not jubilant. They were hopeful, but somewhat reserved. There was peace and a disarming trust everywhere.

In front of us, young men walked up and down with a sign saying “Stop Nuclear Weapons and Power.” In back of us, a man quietly wore his sign of “Total Amnesty.”

All kinds of “Home State” banners waved. Even a figure of Abraham Lincoln turned out, looking so real that everywhere he stood people asked him to pose for a picture.

It was a few minutes until noon and “America the Beautiful” was filling our ears. Everyone was silent now as the Presidential swearing in took place. That man we chose stood earnestly on the Capitol balcony in what looked to be his traditional green. The only distraction of the moment was the shield he stood behind, and the gunned guards standing on each nearby roof reminding us of the all too real problems of our society.

Then the distraction left our minds as our new President’s words echoed back to us. Words such as: “Spiritual strength of our Nation;” “love and mercy to all;” “a new beginning and spirit;” “learn, laugh, work, and pray together;” “to be true to ourselves we must be true to others:” “we will work to eliminate nuclear weapons on this earth;” “pledge perseverance;” “cannot be indifferent.”

As I looked around me the faces seemed to have an attitude of introspection, the realization of the littleness of one man to do all and the awareness of the nitty-gritty of each ones own responsibility.

It was like the bottom beginning instead of the usual climax. We left the grounds thinking this man will hear if we will speak.

Our steps quickened as we headed for the parade. Many of us stopped off at the open legislators’ buildings to thaw and to eat. The lobbies were like picnic grounds as people sat on the floor near the heaters and opened their box lunches.

Friendliness was most prevalent as people warmed their toes in the sunny spots. In spite of the crowds there was no disorder anywhere, just friendly warmth.

Highly refreshed, we set off again for the parade. Everyone was smiling. Three well-dressed middle-aged business-type men handed us a camera asking one of us to take their picture in front of the Commerce of Labor sign. Click, and we were on our way again as they waved a thank you.

The parade was upon us now, and true to his ideals the President and his family stepped out of the limousine and walked with the rest of us.

All the while, a big peanut with a Jimmy Carter head walked along the sidewalk. Tiers of unicyclists equipped with a crutched participant showed this was a celebration that nothing could stop.

The next hours were a sight to behold; a patriotic Mardi gras spiced with circus overtones. The fifty states sported floats and bands. Tennessee’s barn and square dancers and a real chicken perched on its roof; South Carolina’s smoking train; Alaska’s Husky dog team, and Georgia’s peanut balloon.

Our Pennsylvania float was a source of pride, with its two eagles and the words “Committed to the Spirit of a New America” moving to the rhythm of Shippensburg’s own College Raiders.

Even Colonel Lindberg’s first plane, the Curtiss J N-4 “Jenny” was there.

The students couldn’t see much of the Inaugural Ceremony from where they stood and didn’t catch other details of the day, such as Amy stopping to tie her shoe in front of the parade. Some even had to jump up to see the parade over the heads of the people. Nevertheless they learned a whole lot that day about the very real presence of America and the ever flow and exchange of ideas among its every walk of people as they stood among signs and comments that they agreed of disagreed with.

I thought as I took notes on the bus, “How lucky I am to be able to decide in a moment to write a newspaper article about my surroundings and be free to do it.”

What a wealth we have here if we will use it. Let’s “Keep Freedom Ringing.”

Canada is on fire. The smoke drifts south, and when it reaches the North Carolina Piedmont, I feel like I’m breathing with one lung. I check my right nostril, then my left, to see if one is clogged. Nope.

Bob and I took the threat of Global Warming seriously twenty years ago. We threw ourselves into the recycling movement, tried not to buy too much new stuff, did our best to use and reuse, started using biodiesel, and stopped eating meat. Yet we continued—with some guilt—to fill bags of household trash destined for the landfill.

We recently bought his and hers Teslas, complete with chargers, and discussed installing solar panels to offset our driving habit. We grow some of our food, seldom eat out, and rarely buy new clothes.

But it’s hard to feel complacent when the world’s on fire. All the predictions are coming true: the super tornadoes, monster storms, and now a heat wave sweeping across the lower United States.

I watch a young hummingbird—tiny and dark-headed—dip its beak into the center of the metal flower, its miniature toes curled around the perch. I count three this year: an adult male, a long-torsoed female, and this one youngster. They must be a family, yet they body slam each other all through the adjacent air space Star Wars style.

How long before our politicians agree to make good on their climate change promises? How much longer can I use our hummingbird feeders as a distraction?

Two maxims fight for attention in my brain:
“If you aren’t part of the solution, you’re part of the problem,” and
“Stay in the now.”

I was an activist in my forties and fifties. Now, pushing seventy, I’ve passed the baton. I realize that my “simple” life puts more strain on the planet than the average world citizen’s life does—as an American, I have more resources at my disposal—but I will try not to guilt myself over this. I’ve decided to let the little birds hypnotize me, and allow the summer heat to lull me into a torpor. I will slow my footfalls to match my lungs.

I hear the Wood thrush warble its lovely song from a few trees away, perhaps one of our majestic Willow Oaks. Our Evening primrose blossoms—creamy yellow—are still open. It’s only 66° and the sun has not yet cleared the trees to brush them closed with its hot breath. The air smells richly alive. I can feel its moisture on my tanned arms. I lean back and let summer take me.

I had been out running errands and stopped to see Helen and Judy. They were pampering me with chocolate and pashmina as this went down. When I climbed back into my car, I turned on the radio and listened in disbelief. It was one of those this-can’t-be-happening moments.

I was nine years old the last time my world view was shaken to this degree. Like every other pink-faced elementary school student, I was swept up in Kennedy’s Camelot. I believed our leaders were good men, revered and invincible.

John F. Kennedy’s assassination turned these assumptions inside out and I was floored, my sense of reality crushed like a mouse beneath a hard-soled boot.

In the days following January 6, details of the riot settled into my chest like a bad cold, shattering my belief that regardless of our political leanings, we were all Americans who held some things sacred. That life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness did not include permission to ransack the capitol in search of the Vice President and other lawmakers who had been labeled traitors by their leader. I believed that a President would never incite an insurrection and that if he did he would meet with swift justice.

Now I know that all bets are off, anything can happen, and some will stop at nothing to achieve their moment of glory. I see that our national bloodstream is infected with people who believe the system must be shredded but who have no plan for how to replace the essential services provided by that system. And that a corrupt, delusional leader can retain a 30% approval rating.

I’ve lived in the third world, with potholes big enough to swallow a motorcycle, intermittent water and electricity, and undisguised corruption. I’ve seen how hard it is to survive when it’s every-man-for-himself, where mayhem is beyond control. It isn’t pretty and it is not what I want for my children and grandchildren.

January 6 was my red pill/blue pill moment, a gut punch to my understanding of the human race. It only took a few broken windows to see that reality has always been subjective, that we never were a union, and that there never was equal justice for all.

Ultimately, I did get my head around Kennedy’s death, and was reborn as a wiser, albeit more jaded me. I hope to one day look back upon the Capitol siege with some kind of understanding.

Both sides agree that freedom and democracy are at stake. I want to think this is where our path forward begins.

They say one of them died of a heart attack after tazing his privates while reaching for plunder. That he posed with four of his guns before coming down to the capitol and that he was a generally nice guy, R.I.P.

They say the cops were complicit, or under-prepared, or lacked backup because “you know what happened the last time the National Guard came to manage a mostly-peaceful, D.C. protest.” They say the crowd was incited by their commander-in-chief saying, “After this, we’re going to walk down and I’ll be there with you. We’re going to walk down,” or that the Viking-helmeted LARP larkers and the booted commandos with their zip ties were from the other side, sent in to make us look bad.

They say they won’t stand by and let socialists rip the heart out of our country, that they don’t want a godless, amoral, dictatorial, oppressed, and socialist nation, and that they’ll never give up. They say it’s time for the Second Revolution.

They say we can’t trust the other side, that we must work together, that the vaccines are on their way, and that we’ll never let them stick us in the arm. That climate change is a hoax, that the planet is burning, that they are coming for your baby, and that these people cannot be reasoned with.

They say it’s too late, that it’s never too late, that we should write our representatives, hunker down, get a gun, start a garden, go out and get herd immunity, invest in Zoom, pull our money from the stock market, stop eating beef, stop eating soy, stop the steal, stop fighting and unite.

They say step away, boil some water, light a candle, drink some tea, go for a walk, call a friend, eat chocolate, practice gratitude, get some sleep, and remember to breathe.

Birds – September 3, 2020

Sometimes my life flaps on ahead like a turkey taking flight, clumsily erratic, yet out of reach. Some days I soar like a deft hawk, lord of it all, shining and aloft. I strike through every line on my list, make every call, walk, write, and ace my kitchen-counter list, leaving no crumbs behind.

Today I hope to at least peck along, dulling my beak on stones and dirt, pounding a steady all-day beat. I hope to clean and process two pounds of mushrooms, make salsa, pepper sauce, pimento cheese, and Tuno salad, mow that damned ditch, and push out a solid first draft for my next blog post.

Today I will peck until I soar.

Off the Rails – October 20, 2020

I’ve lost my center, fallen off my horse in this gallop to the polls. Maybe this is what true madness feels like: jangled nerves, indecision, confusion, apathy, lethargy, and angst.

This is not a house of cards built of sand, this is a writhing mass of snakes masquerading as walls atop broken glass.

Two Days – November 1, 2020

Two days until Election Day and we are suspended. These past four years have torn open the dark underbelly of my country. We are more than fractured; we are oozing bile, bleeding from old, old wounds. The United States of America was never great.

We are a muscle of greed and violence, taking what we can, stepping on those below us. My anger is guilt, exposed. My pretty life is bound in generations of inequality.

When I ask my mother if she listens to the news, she says that she hears it but understands little. Today I will take her lead, ignore the headlines, and harvest peanuts.

The Wait – November 5, 2020

The world is watching us, clicking their tongues, nervous about the implications of our once-great democracy crumbling into third-world tyranny.

I drove into Pittsboro on Election Day and was tailgated by an enraged driver, pounding her steering wheel and firing spastic hand gestures. I left her at the circle and joined an unusual amount of traffic, all hurrying with furious urgency. I breathed in relief when I made it to the post office — heart beating with real fear — and took the back way home.

Blood and Birdsong – Thanksgiving, 2020

You get up to pee and decide to stay up even though it’s only 5:22. After picking out the big dipper from behind murky clouds, you turn on the porch party lights and roll back in your rocker. Fred and Reda’s heat pump shuts off, a car whooshes down the Moncure Pittsboro Road, and you hear the desultory plop of last night’s rain leaving your metal roof.

This is as empty-headed as you get – this listening in the dark, pen in hand, coffee thick in your mouth, straining to hear the next word, ignoring the day’s directives jangling at the edge, light creeping towards your hammock, splashing a little white tear in the grey cotton sky.

You hear gunshots in the woods and wonder if Hal will get his deer, fill his tag, drag a gutted carcass home to hang outside the house. Seven shots, ten, fifteen — it sounds more like duck hunting but there is no pond back there. You wait for the sound of sirens. A rabbit sprints out from underneath your plywood porch and disappears around the pole barn.

Finally, the barking guns stop. I hear the roosters roar, then an angry squirrel and the first wren. This is a holiday in rural North Carolina. They start with blood and birdsong.

Lucky Me – November 30, 2020

Wearing my new mask, the black triple-ply with the sable-soft ear loops, I open the Post Office door with the index finger of my left hand. My mailbox key is in my right — my clean hand, just like in Africa — and I am pleased with myself for adapting to the pandemic so easily.

I find a yellow slip and have to stand in line and when the manager steps up to the second window and says, “Picking up?” I leave the line, making sure my eyes convey the proper blend of elation and humility at my good fortune.

While I wait, I look at stamp posters — so many colorful images! — and think about how, now that Papa Biden is in charge, we probably won’t lose our right to stand in line at the Post Office, smizing (eyes-only smiling) with the locals.

I’ve been filling notebooks since I learned to write in grade school, the activity itself a dear and trusted friend. I don’t know if I would have survived the existential threats to our health care system and our democracy without someplace to jot down my fears and observations.

~*~

I heard them say on NPR that Biden had reached the finish line shortly before Bob returned home from the Farmer’s Market last Saturday. After a distracted high-five, we brought in the groceries, Bob retired to his office, and I finished vacuuming, letting the whine of the machine mask my jumbled feelings.

It had gotten quite warm, so I changed into a white sundress patterned with wisteria blotches before sorting out the produce: forest green spinach, spring green cabbage, and two enormous heads of red-violet leaf lettuce. Texts rolled in — black letters on an orchid screen. “Yippeee!” I typed back, over and over.

I paced. There was not enough time to launch into kitchen prep before a 1:00 Zoom with my brothers. I walked down the hall with the apricot walls and tapped on the door before entering Bob’s work sanctum. “What’s going on?” he asked eyes on his screen. “I need a hug,” I said, placing my hand on the shoulder of his checkered robin’s egg blue shirt. He smiled and stood up, pulling me into his broad chest. The hypervigilant me vanished and I found my new balance.

It was a small gathering: John, Joe, Jim, me, and Bob, who joined us from his workroom. No one spoke of the election, although I recall talking about the staggering waste of money spent on campaigns, rueful over what it could have done to help our working class through this pandemic.

I tend toward disillusioned outrage, I thought, looking at the set of my mouth on my laptop screen, my face peach against the yellow wall of our back porch. My timberwolf hair hid the skinny shoulder straps, my purple dress looking more the color of purple mountains majesty, chosen perhaps as a symbol of change.

After the boys pulled the conversation out of the toilet, we took turns saying what we were grateful for, this being our last get-together of 2020. I said I was happy for the sense of purpose I gained from working in our multi-greened garden and for the support of my friends. Bob was happy to see his sacrifices reflected in our bank balance, John thanked Jesus for challenges as well as gifts because with challenge comes the gift of resilience, Jim was grateful to have kept his job, and Joe felt blessed for the health of his parish and spiritual community.

~*~

My basket brimming with goldenrod-colored boxes of snack crackers, a chestnut hair clip, and two yellow bottles of Immune C plus Zinc & Vitamin D gummies, I circle back to the stationery aisle. I stand in my previous footprints for a few moments, reverent and conflicted, before reaching for that box of 64 Crayon Colors.

Later, I eye the sky on my way to the woods with a load of okra roots, hoping to get the tomato plants out and the lettuce starts in before those grey clouds let loose.

I picked eight and a half pounds of peppers the other day: heart-shaped pimentos, green shishitos, fat yellow bells, sleek Corno di Toros. Bob dug up ten pounds of sweet potatoes. There are about forty more pounds in the ground. We have not started harvesting ginger or peanuts, but we brought in sixteen pounds of edamame and eighteen pounds of winter squash.

Meanwhile, lab technicians are working around the clock to develop a Coronavirus vaccine, spurred on by $2 billion in government funding. Polling suggests between 50% and 75% of Americans will decline to take the vaccine when it comes out even though we are approaching 220,000 deaths. NC State University opened, then closed several weeks later.

The country is paralyzed by a nasty case of pre-election polarization. Many of us long for sane leadership while many believe they have found it. Some think the virus is an over-hyped construct. Others are out of work and mourning their dead. I feel like the American population has devolved into a cafeteria of plate-hurling youngsters, no authority in sight, medics removing the wounded on gurneys.

I spent much of September watching the hummingbirds fight over sugar water. What a waste of energy, I thought. They wouldn’t behave that way if they were herd animals. I closed my eyes and imagined zebras head-butting, rearing, and kicking over each tuft of dry grass. Maybe the zebras would fight if it were one central tuft rather than an endless savannah. I remembered how hard the horses fought over their grain, remembered how it felt to blunder into the lethal pistons of a red gelding’s shod hind feet at feeding time, and wake later on my back in the pasture, confused and alone.

Some mornings I lay in bed wishing humans were more like zebras than hummingbirds. I wonder if we are hard-wired to fight over resources or if we have out-populated our savannah. Did Stone Age tribes fight over tubers and carrion? Was aggression rewarded by obesity and power? I think about Polynesian royalty parading their calories, lording it over thin slaves and commoners, and I have my answer.

Survival of the fittest is a euphemism for greed. If I can rob you of calories, goods, and services, I should and I will. All the religion in the world isn’t going to fix our dark nature. This is why we need laws. And no one is above the law.

The drums are roaring now, difficult to ignore. I hear a newscaster say, “with 24 days to the election,” and it makes me swallow the wrong way. Turning off the radio, I try to concentrate on the Sweet Jemisons on my bamboo cutting board.

It seems silly to be racing the weather to plant more food when we’ve harvested so much, and when our future seems so uncertain. But I can’t stop. I have already planted garlic, carrots, collards, beets, and spinach, and now lettuce. The fava beans will be the last to go in. This is my way of carrying on. It’s a good distraction. I bury myself in peppers, sharpening my knives, and wait for the rain to water in the lettuce.