Tales from the jolly bungalow

Does anyone else but me have lots of memories that are just that? The outside context is irrelevant. I might only guess the city if the table was unique to a place. The year is somewhat irrelevant. It’s simply a memory of people and a conversation.

As I sip my breakfast tea in the dining room this morning, my mind drifts to the breakfast table of my youth. We are sharing the morning paper. Breakfast was a time that began in silent reading. The news was never discussed at table, we might discuss lighter things and we would discuss the news later in the evening. I’ve never cared for a large breakfast, perhaps because the news was usually heavy enough.

When we sat down for dinner, only the grace paid oblique reference to the news. We were grateful for the food and the farmers who grew it, and we hoped for a world at peace. It was the height of the Vietnam war, and the stories about it in the newspapers weighed heavily on us, as it did for all Friends. Until my father’s passing, we spoke French at dinner, and we never talked about anything somber. I loved those conversations, where we continued to appreciate the food we ate, the books we read, made plans for “le week-end”, and talked about the natural world outside. It’s no surprise that the French vocabulary I have retained over the years is all about the joys of life.

We did finally talk about the news and practical things later in the evening, in English.

As I begin to smarten up my French vocabulary, what I lack is the words for the daily chores and other adult responsibilities. Not that I would speak of sports, but I don’t have those words. I had to look up all the tech words as well.

Keeping with tradition, I speak in French now as I prepare the cats’ meals. I’ve translated all the fatuous nicknames I have given them, and added a few more. This morning, and my excuse is that it was before my cuppa, as I was telling Eclisse how wonderful she was and how l proud I was of her, as a Mother of Grand Champions, my vocabulary slipped a little and I called her la Mère des Grands Champignons. Yeah, I meant to say Champions the same as in English except for the pronunciation, but that is probably not a thing we discussed much at dinner. The question is whether Eclisse has a new nickname, Mother of Big Mushrooms?

I thought the spirits of my parents might have some advice about how to get rid of the regime. They were of the generation that experienced WWII. I can see them reaching for the right analogies, and then stopping short. It’s different this time. We don’t have a strong ally to look to in getting us out of this mess. The mess is homegrown this time and it is challenging to build a movement when the opposition is vaguely dispersed in your midst. Of the four MAGA families I was aware of in this town (and there may be more that I haven’t met) one of them still displays an election sign from last November. How tacky, I know. At least we know they can’t be counted on. Another family moved away. Have the other two had a quiet change of heart? I may never know.

Yes, I see why my ancestors are silent. None of them has experienced a civil war, or a coup. They also lived in times of more honest journalism. They had a government that they knew was doing the right thing and could rally behind it. We have to rally against it.

It is time to meet some other voices, those of the resistance movements, those who overthrew fascism from within, and those who experienced civil wars from the side of justice.

Ah, my father does have some relevant wisdom. He worshipped good journalism. We need honest journalism, although we cannot guarantee it will be heard or believed. People have been lied to for so long that they believe in lies and doubt truths. It’s OK to seek the truth from without, from trusted sources.

It seems like it is hiding a lot on Tuesdays. It takes a special consciousness to find the bungalow. I have to keep part of me in the present and slip back in time, one or two lifetimes, at the same time. That’s easier to do when my thoughts are of existential matters, and impossible when the day has me deep in research, and scheduling. If writing in multiple notebooks is involved, all bets are off.

It’s strange that the current pile of notebooks on my desk seemed to pull me right into the warmth of gran’s kitchen. She had a notebook, no doubt a series of them, that sat on a little shelf below the kitchen telephone. The notebook was for keeping the grocery list. It lived by the phone because when it was time to buy groceries, she called K’s Market and read the list to Mr. K. and the groceries were delivered later in the day.

Why did people think going to a supermarket was an improvement over this? I always hated the time it took. I started ordering groceries online when I lived in Westchester, and kept my own notebook beside the laptop. Now that I live so far from a market, I have to pick up my own order, but at least I don’t have to run all over the store first. Gran had it better, don’t you think?

Are you suffering from tariff whiplash? I certainly am. As a globalist, I find the notion of protectionism very strange and counter-productive. Not any single country can specialise in every single product. It’s impossible. Every nation has their own centres of excellence.

When I think of the United States, quality wines and good technology design (but not manufacture) come to mind, both from California. I buy seasonal fruit and veggies locally, but rely on Chilean and Mexican farmers for my fresh blueberries in the winter. I buy linen from Central Europe and wool from the UK. Weaving thread and looms come from Sweden. There’s good pottery in France and the UK. My cars are designed in Japan and they wander around North America when being built. It’s how the world works. I’m happy with that.

I don’t think the old felon has a clue about quality or knows where to find it. He probably doesn’t even eat blueberries.

He certainly doesn’t understand the double-edged nature of tariffs.

The local food Co-op made a misstep of timing in the tariff polka and blueberries were up by 3.00 a pint today. I only mind because thats money in the coffers of a regime that has done nothing to deserve it.

I’d rather see entrepreneurial grants to support sustainable production of quality green goods and services. Maybe this country could excel in more things of quality, made to last and built of natural materials. Build it and they will come.

But what do I know? I’m not some tinpot dictator.

Last evening, a friend and I were discussing the national security debacle of Hegseth’s discussion of military actions in Yemen on an insecure chat line, with a journalist accidentally present. Memories drifted to the outrage over Hillary Clinton’s emails (“Lock her up!”) Well, then, “Lock him up!” Was he drinking, again, or is he generically unsuited to his job?

All of this led to memories of a trip my mother and I took to Val-kill Cottage one summer afternoon. Mum always admired Mrs. Roosevelt, and a visit to this national historic site seemed like a lovely way to learn more about her.

We arrived to find the entry road closed and a strong security presence there. Then First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton was visiting the site and public access was closed. We were a little disappointed, yet the notion of one strong First Lady communing with another occurred to us and we were glad for her opportunity to visit. We did go back to Val-kill Cottage another day, and it was wonderful, perhaps even better, because of our knowledge of the First Lady’s visit.

So, there must be a protest coming up soon where I can carry a sign that says,“Lock him up!” I’m out of the loop on local actions. So much else is happening, and I wonder what the impact of a protest in this solidly blue county and state would be.

Skim through the pictures if all you want is spring fantasy. The text stands in strict counterpoint to them.

The month of March and the advent of spring are always conflicted times for me. There’s the disconnect of New England weather with the folk traditions passed down from my English family. I’m still waiting for the snowdrops which have been long gone in the lore. Daffodils? About three centimeters of foliage emerging as of today. Let’s not talk about the blooms. The ice has not gone out on the pond, but it is long past safe to walk on. The season cannot be hurried here. Why does this bother me? My feet are rooted in this soil, or maybe I’m just stuck the thick mud that characterizes the season. My head is free to wander, and wonder as I debate whether there is any hope of a return to normal after this regime falls. Should I just leave? Live somewhere the seasons align with the ancient tales? I do not know yet.

We could have more snow this weekend. We could descend further into autocracy at any day.

My family has always been one that relocates. No nation holds sway over us when it turns to hatred and bigotry. We find a better home, and put our support behind an honest leader. Am I too stuck in March’s mud to heed the call?

These photos are from the Spring Bulb Show that took place earlier this month at Smith College. Perhaps I am craving a springtime that only exists under glass.

It took me a week to get rid of Alexa, the Echo devices and my old smart home setup. Siri turns on the lights for me now and I managed to buy everything I needed without resorting to shopping on Amazon.

I gave away the Echo devices on my local Buy Nothing group and thus deprived Amazon of the sale of four new devices.

I usually write about something about how my parents and grandparents dealt with similar things. This is too specifically modern for them to have experienced it. I believe my maternal grandfather would have loved it. He liked to tinker in his workshop and had built his first wireless (radio, in other words). My mother would have used home automation if someone else set it up for her. In her last years, she used a wheelchair and would have found this very efficient. I don’t know what my other forebears would have thought of it. I do know that some would have recognized this filament-type Edison’ bulb. ‘

Alexa: “Sorry, I don’t know that one.”

When I read on Bluesky that Alexa “didn’t know that one” about the January 6 attack on the US Capitol by right-wing extremists, I was appalled but not surprised. I verified it, trying many forms of the question. I even asked how many participants had been pardoned by the President. Amazon Alexa still didn’t know anything about it, yet could tell me who won the recent Superb Owl and give me the score.The reason I am not surprised is that I know that Bezos leans so far to the right that a light breeze could tip him over.

The only reason that I used the Amazon infrastructure was that I’ve always been a smart home geek, going back to the days of Wink hubs and Quirky + GE light bulbs, which were annoyingly quirky but so beautiful. When Wink faded into obscurity, Apple didn’t have a serious offering, so I settled for the Amazon system and a variety of mediocre bridges.

I cannot in good conscience go forward with Alexa. Yesterday, I got a HomePod from Apple and am awaiting a Hue Bridge and a half dozen light bulbs, which will be my trial setup. For now, I can turn on lights using an app and a mediocre bridge. I might even use the wall switches. My satisfaction of giving away something Amazon fully outweighs any temporary inconvenience.

If you want the three Echo Dots and an Echo Show, I won’t judge you. We all have our own pain points when it comes to politics; this is one of mine. I just hate to see anything useable going unused.

Most of the time I am a magical herbalist, selecting plants for their symbolic meanings and fashioning spell bags, herb bundles for burning, and protective charms. It’s powerful work, and yet it can leave me disconnected from the herbs themselves, since their use is largely symbolic. Sometimes I want to roll up my sleeves, select some herbs for their utility, and craft something that is both magical and practical.

It’s a Virgo thing, no doubt, and my ever so pragmatic father, also a Virgo, instilled in me the love of practical things, and also a love of herbs. It was he who insisted that our family enjoy a ‘spring tonic’ of tender dandelions when they first emerged from the earth. We nibbled the stems of rhubarb, ever so tart and mouth-puckering, to support our digestion. There were other things I can’t remember fully. Something with the combination of beets and carrots, raw and finely grated, as a winter salad. I don’t know how he knew all this; he just did.

I’ve had the recipe book pictured above for a while now and joyfully make Mediterranean Garden Lotion Bars to get me through the dry end of winter. I mostly look at the other recipes, unsure how to make them. While the book theoretically stands alone, it’s more confident when backed up by the 200-odd pages of the course. How and why form a firm base with what.

I seem more willing to wear my herbs than to eat them. We will see how this goes.

Disclaimer: these anecdotes are for amusement only. I am not a medical professional and do not give medical advice or provide treatment. Herbs can have side effects, interact with your medications, and have adverse effects on pregnant or lactating people. Discuss the risks with your healthcare provider.

It saddens me so much that the old felon has frightened so many companies into abolishing or hiding their efforts at improving the workspace. I am glad to have retired, because I would not like where it is heading. Now consider that I have plenty of privilege to my credit. All I lack is not being male and not being Christian. Would my experience be any different in the workspace of today? Let’s pretend I have a new job. I look around the office and see a boring homogeneity. All the bosses are white men. There are few other women, and they are all young and very good looking. There are no people of colour, no one with foreign accents and no one looks happy to meet me. I hear a few guys laughing and muttering something about an old lady, presumably me. So much for diversity. I think back to my past workplaces, and think of all the friends I would have never met because they were not young white and male.

Then there’s the matter of pay. Women never achieved equity in that, despite efforts and past initiatives. now, I’ll be lucky to earn half what a similarly-qualified man does. The glass ceiling is much thicker and lower now.

I’m in my first department meeting. The boss asks for suggestions and I have something. I raise my hand. He never acknowledges me. Oh, right. Only men have good ideas.

The only time I am acknowledged is when I volunteer to work on Christmas. I’ll take another day off—the 21st. No one asks why then, but I’m ok with that. I’ve never shared my pagan roots at work. No workplace seemed that inclusive.

No good can come of this. It ensures mediocrity because the pool of potential hires I’d less than half of what it was. Hoe is this making anything great?