Donald Trump Horrifies Me

trump-pointing-finger

I write a political blog called Ramona’s Voices, where I often feel the need to rage on about the insanity of a man like Donald Trump getting even this close to the presidency.  I’ve tried to keep my opinions corralled in the spaces where political opinion are accepted and even welcomed.

This is my personal space, and up to now I’ve kept politics out of it.  I can’t do it any more.  I’m taking this particular race personally, and it gnaws at me day and night. There is nothing even close to normal about it.

I deliberately haven’t asked my family or friends if they support Donald Trump because I’m so afraid some of them will say they do and our relationship will never be the same.  Yes, I feel that strongly about this candidate.  I’m a Democrat who has only voted Republican once or twice in my life, but because of Donald Trump I’m shocked at how  nostalgic I’m feeling about all of the Republicans before him. My consolation is that Donald Trump is not really a Republican.  He’s an opportunist who will be whatever he thinks people want him to be.

Suddenly he’s a Christian, even though everyone knows religion has never been a priority for him.  He pretends he’s a hater because he saw a niche and worked to fill it.  He’s an empty vessel, an opportunist, a vile human being who shows so little respect for this country he doesn’t even feel the need to study up for the job he’s applying for–incredibly, the highest job in the land.

He knows nothing about the constitution and doesn’t care. Rules are his to make and if you question him he’ll tell you that the polls show he’s right and we’re wrong.  He’s winning hearts and minds and since he sees the presidential campaign as nothing more than a popularity contest, he can do and say anything he wants and to hell with the rest of us.

I don’t just want him to lose, I want him to lose so badly nothing he ever says from now to eternity will ever be broadcast again.  But I know it won’t happen.  I won’t get my wish. And I’m terrified about what this says about our country and what we’ve become.

I have no solutions. I don’t understand what’s happening enough to have solutions.  We’re not a country that hates but that’s what it’s looking like.  We built our reputation if not on kindness, at least on tolerance.  We’ve learned something from our past transgressions. We are each different enough to understand the need to accept differences.  We’ve grown, or at least I thought we did.

Donald Trump is not representative of who we are.  He can’t be.  He won’t be.  We won’t let him be.

I wanted to keep this space a sanctuary against the insanity that is our world now, but the world seeps in wherever I am.  You’ll notice that I rarely write here anymore.  That’s because I can’t retreat to a sanctuary when there are such pressing needs in the real world.

As I said, I take this personally.  This presidential race is like no other.  It will be my obsession from now until November because I can’t sit back and let Donald Trump get away with this.  I don’t hide from it anywhere else, and I can’t hide from it here.  Reality strikes, even in sanctuaries.

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On a Marriage 60 Years in the Making

On July 14, 1956, Ramona Gracia Caporossi, age 18, married Edward Jay Grigg, age 23, in a Lutheran church in Royal Oak, Michigan. The date was chosen, not because it was Bastille Day or because the date, 7/14/56, had a nice ring to it, but because every summer in the middle of July the factory where Mona was an office worker shut down for two weeks for retooling. If she worked until then, it meant she would get her two weeks vacation pay before leaving to become a housewife.

They met on September 29 the year before and were engaged on Christmas Eve. She was a few months out of high school and he was a few months out of the Marines. They lived on the same street, five houses apart, but the five-year age gap kept them from knowing the other even existed until that day in late September when they met and began to talk. He loved FDR and so did she.  As a Marine he had been based in the segregated south and he told her stories that brought her to tears. He was smart but quiet about it. He was funny but not mean. He was honest and loyal and surprisingly shy. He was sexy as all get out.

He had a happy childhood and so did she. She fell madly in love with his family, and he fit in with hers almost right away. (There was that time her mother got hold of a rumor that he had been in prison instead of the Marines, but it passed.)

She had dreams of being on Broadway and thought she would spend years on her own before settling down.  She told everyone she would never marry anyone who smoked or drank. He did both. He had no real ambitions beyond working in some capacity in electronics, a trade he learned while in the service.

They had three children; a daughter born in 1957, a son born in 1959, and another daughter, born in 1966. (Between them they eventually produced three adorable grandkids. A real perk, and well deserved.)

His work–the work he loved and was good at–would take them to California, where two of their children were born, and later to Maui, where their infant daughter learned to walk, to swim, and eat poi. But Michigan was their real home; the Midwest fit them best.

And so ends the biography. This story is about a marriage that lasted against all odds. My marriage. I won’t be bragging and I won’t be complaining.  I’ll be trying to figure out how two very different people could make a life together for more than 60 years and still wake up each morning happy to find the other still alive.

It’s impossible to be married for 60 years without growing old. That’s the downside.  And with aging comes memory loss, so, lucky for us, we’ve forgotten most of what happened and how we felt during those six baffling, volatile, life-changing decades.  

I do recall some mighty fights, even to the point of wishing out loud we were anywhere but there. But what stopped us? A lack of funds? An impasse about who had to take the kids? Inertia? Could be, but I’m going with abiding love.

He spent many years traveling, the kids grew up, and I found my voice as a writer.  He was doing what he loved and I was doing what I loved, both of us thriving in communities far removed from our lives together at home. It could be that absence really does make the heart grow fonder. It could be that those times apart renewed a lagging interest. Or it could be that all those naysayers who said it would never last were wrong: We really were meant for each other.

I don’t have to tell anyone who is or has been married that marriage is hard work.  Only newlyweds think “marriage” and “idyllic” are words that will hang together forever.  They’re like those parents who think they’re having a sweet little baby when what they actually have is a pre-adult requiring years of sacrifice and patience and lots and lots of attention.  It takes an inordinate amount of love to get through it, but once those kids have latched on there’s no letting go.

The two of us started out as strangers, created a family, and made a life together. We marvel sometimes at the sequence of events that had to take place in order for this to happen.  We had to be born to parents who chose the exact same street to live on. He had to come back to Michigan after the service and not stay in California with the girl he thought he would marry.  I had to turn down my long-time boyfriend and be ready to move on.

When we met, something had to click. And then something had to hold us together. We had to adjust and tweak and redefine our love many times over the years, because the nervous intensity of young love is far different from the old-shoe comfort of love between the aged.  (The who??)

But beyond that–no small thing–we had to stay alive.

If someone had told us on our wedding day that sixty years later we would be congratulating ourselves on a job well done, hugging our special day away, thankful to be together, we would have thought. . .  Well, we wouldn’t have thought.  It was the day of our wedding; I giddy and glowing in my beautiful gown and he miserable in his rented tuxedo.  The thought of growing old together was a dream neither of us could take seriously. And the crazy thing is, we’re in the midst of it and we still don’t. Take it seriously.

So this is what my husband cooked up for our anniversary:  We should call the papers and tell them after sixty years we’re getting a divorce. The news would go viral. Producers of reality shows would pick up on the story and fight over getting us to live through it on camera. At last we would be rich!

This from the guy who still shudders over the speech he had to give in community college on the GI Bill. This from the two of us who are so private we shut the bathroom door even when no one is within miles of the house.  

I told him if they could airbrush out the jowls and wattles and cellulite, I might think about it.

And then we had to laugh. Man, wouldn’t the kids and grandkids be embarrassed?

Serves them right.

So that’s how it is. Sixty years and counting.

Ed and Mona at Belle Isle sq

While we were dating

Ed and Mona wedding kissing

The Big Day!

Ed and Mona 35th Anniversary

Our 35th Wedding Anniversary

Mona and Ed fairly current

Fairly current

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How Danged Fools Celebrate April First

Well.  Where did the time go?  My last post here couldn’t possibly have been exactly three months ago!  I thought I said I was a blogger!

So what brings me here today?  I want pity.  Lots of it.  I fell down go boom yesterday and split both lips and BROKE MY NOSE!  I now have two black raccoon eyes and a bruise across just half of my top lip, looking for all the world like an absent-minded man who forgot to shave off the other half of his mustache.

You’ll be looking for pictures of my ridiculous face, I know, but that’s not going to happen.  This is NOT an April Fools joke.  You’ll just have to take my word for it. I have the x-rays to prove it, and when I get back up north, I’ll be taking them to some doctor who knows about these things. Since I fell flat as a pancake my nose didn’t bend, it smooshed, so it looks like it’ll heal on its own without having to be straightened.  I hope.  I’ve never broken my nose before but it sounds like straightening is optional.  It’s going to heal, no matter what I do.

We’re leaving So. Carolina in the morning, heading back to Michigan after a three-month sabbatical from the frozen North.  Which, come to think of it, is the exact amount of time since I’ve written here.  But, never mind. . .

When I get back to not feeling so sorry for myself, I’ll get back to writing stuff that somebody might want to read.  In the meantime,  some visuals:

How I’m feeling:

sad pickle

In a pickle and sad

 

What we’ll be leaving tomorrow:

sunrise balcony

Sunrise from our balcony

 

What’s happening in Michigan:

Michigan road in April

Michigan road in April

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Resolved: To Make 2016 A Year I Manage To Get Through

Here it is, 2016, a fresh new start.  Things will be different this year, and not just different, but better.  Way better!  So much better, next year at this time we won’t even have to do a New Year’s resolution.  Everything we resolved to do will have come true.
Perfect!  Can’t wait!
I’m lying! Not true!
But you knew that.
Let me say once again that New Year’s Resolutions are a fun way to pass the time but are meaningless in the real world.  Not wishing to burst your feel-good bubble on the very first day of the new year;  just telling you, in case you woke up this morning actually believing that all it takes to do some serious life-changing before the next year is out is to sincerely resolve to do it on New Year’s Day.
Some people believe a resolution is not legit unless you say it out loud to someone who might actually remember–and care–later on.  I’ve done it myself in the days when I couldn’t have started the year without a list of resolutions.  It was a good luck gesture I almost really believed in.  Sort of like not stepping on a crack to avoid breaking your mother’s back.

But over time I realized the surest way to disappoint myself in the worst way possible was to promise myself (most sincerely, because no other way would do) that I wouldn’t be a complete failure again.  This year I would finally do what I’ve been meaning to do, and this time I mean it.
Sometimes I would even make a list–actually write things down:

Lose 20 pounds.
Make a lot of money with my writing.
Travel to that place I’ve always wanted to go.

Okay, lose 10 pounds.
Okay, make any money with my writing.
Okay, at least get out of the state.

Then, thankfully, I would lose the list, and any remnants of any long ago resolution would drift away, never to be heard from again until next New Year’s Eve, when those long-ago resolutions would come back and hit me like a ton of bricks.  I promised!  I resolved!  I said them out loud!  I didn’t do any of them!  (Except to get out of the state.  I did manage to do that.  But who couldn’t when you live 20 miles from the border?)

So this year you could follow my lead, save yourself a lot of headaches, and just bypass that tradition.  The world won’t come to an end.  The year will start, the days will go by, one by one, and nobody will notice that you didn’t make a resolution.

I didn’t know that when I was young.  I went along, sheep-like, because everyone else did.  I honestly thought I was the only one who didn’t keep her resolutions.  I know better now.  It’s the most freeing thing in the world to know my promises to myself are meaningless and therefore totally unnecessary.
You too can be free.  Just say no.  No resolutions!  (If you think you can’t do it, write me.  I’ll talk you down.  I’ve been there.  I know.)

So Happy New Year!  Health! Prosperity!  Love!  Joy!

Carry on. . .

(Did some of you notice a similarity to last year’s January 1st post?  It’s because I stole it and altered it slightly.  Next year I’m hoping to be better at writing something original on the first day of the year.  Hoping, but not promising.)
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The Things I Find On The Internet, Pt. 1: Creativity

If you’ve never had the pleasure of reading Maria Popova’s brilliant site, BrainPickings, you really have to head over there.  There are days when I don’t dare wander too far into it because once I’m in, it could be hours before I get out again.

She scours the net for beauty, art, inspiration, joy, and I’m never disappointed in what she finds.  Here, in one paragraph, she strikes gold:

Complement the altogether terrific [Studs Terkel]  And They All Sang with Joplin on creativity and rejection, then treat yourself to more enduring wisdom from beloved musicians: Bob Dylan on the unconscious mind and the ideal conditions for creativity, Leonard Cohen on work ethic and the muse, Leonard Bernstein onmotivation and why we create, Carole King on how to overcome creative block, Aaron Copland on emotion vs. the intellect, and Amanda Palmer on the art of asking.

In another link, Salon writer J.P. O’Malley does a Q and A with Tracy Daugherty, author of “The Last Love Song”, a new biography about Joan Didion:

Did Joan Didion believe that language gave her a certain amount of power in life?

Yes. Didion once said the only time in her life when she feels in control is sitting at the typewriter, because then she can control the story. And her language is so tight, powerful and direct that you can see on the page how hard she works to maintain that control. For Didion, whatever happens in life, you can always form it into a narrative which you can control.

Then, over at Genius.com, John Cleese “lectures” on creativity.  He says creativity is just play, but very serious play.  It’s playing with ourselves (not in that way!  Jeez!) so we must make play dates with ourselves, but they have to last more than 30 minutes because it takes at least 30 minutes of alone time to calm down enough to forget about who we’re supposed to be calling, or what we need from the store, and get to thinking creatively.

I’m paraphrasing Mr. Cleese so don’t hold me to it.  Also, what he has to say is cleverer (because he’s John Cleese) and much, much longer than my explanation (which may or may not be right).  But it’s worth spending a few minutes of your playdate time to read it.

Let me just sneak my own thoughts on creativity in here:  We’re all hardwired to be creative; that’s how homo sapiens  learned to survive–by creatively figuring out ways to get things done, but artistic creativity is built into us, too.

Every society, every tribe, even the most primitive, leaves behind works of art having nothing to do with utility.  Art for art’s sake.  We’re hardwired to express ourselves in art, in music, in writing.  We’re surrounded by evidence of the need to create.  And sometimes it surfaces in the most unlikely places.

tea party paper sculptureI love books and I wouldn’t dream of cutting any of mine into tiny little pieces, but I have seen books turned into such astonishing sculptures I’m able to pretend they’re not made from real books.  They’re that good.  And so is the story behind them.

In 2011, mysterious, exquisite paper sculptures began appearing in libraries in Edinburgh, Scotland.  Nobody saw them come in and nobody knows who brought them.  Each sculpture had a gift card attached, thanking the staff for encouraging reading and art.  I never get tired of looking at them, and I’m still curious about the sculptor, but some mysteries are best left mysterious.  I’m okay with that.  In this case, it adds to the story and makes these sculptures even more exquisite.

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Sometimes, when the world around us threatens to get too crazy to ever settle down, we need to seek out those moments of wonder and joy.  They’re all around us, often free for the taking.  And they’re there because someone else saw the need to create just the thing we needed at just the right moment.  All it takes is for us to open our eyes–or to look in another direction.

Funny how that works.

(I should explain the photo above.  I plucked a Goats-beard about to go to seed from the side of the road and stuck it in between boards on my dock, where the light was stronger and the background more interesting.  It’s one of my favorites, and I’m happy that it’s copied and shared more than any of my photos. The elements finally finished off our dock this year, so next year it’ll have to be replaced with a new one.  I’ll miss that old dock.  It had character.)

(9/13 – Adding this Brain Pickings article by Maria Popova about Oliver Sacks because it took my breath away and I don’t want to lose it.)

(10/25 – Okay, one more:  Brain Pickings celebrates nine years on the web and Maria Popova offers “9 Learnings from 9 Years of Brain Pickings”.  Perfect!  And now that I have them here I know where to go whenever I want to savor them again.)

Posted in Art and Artists, Beauty and joy, On Writing and Media | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Seeing Things: Or, The Eyes Have It

I’ll warn you right now, this is a blog post about me again and it involves a medical procedure.  No icky stuff–I wouldn’t do that to you–but I thought I should explain why I’m not writing much these days.

It’s nothing, really, but I can’t see to read or write.  I had cataract surgery last fall and things were going well until about a month ago, when I noticed I was trying to read with my left eye closed.  Again. That’s what sent me to my optometrist last year, a visit that escalated beyond my control and suddenly I was one among the multitudes who could boast of having cataracts removed.   (I know.  Pathetic.  I never paid much attention to those people, either, until I was one of them.)

So two days ago I had my eyes zapped with lasers in a procedure that was supposed to bust up the shadowy stuff that had grown on the backs of my eyes–something that happens to 20 to 30% of all cataract patients.  (Who knew?)

But two days later, I’m still closing or covering my left eye in order to read or write.  I haven’t loopopeyeked in the mirror to confirm this, but I suspect I’m looking a lot like Popeye but without the pipe.  (I yam what I yam and that’s what I yam.)

So if you’re still here reading this you’re probably wondering why I have to close one eye in order to read or write.  Right?  It’s because I have a lazy eye.  Amblyopia. (I like to call it a wandering eye.)    My eyes don’t work well together and are constantly attempting to go it alone.  It’s not a problem as long as my vision is close to normal in both eyes, and, with glasses, it usually is.  But now it’s not.

My wandering eye causes my  depth perception to be a bit off, and I don’t see 3-D.  It only causes problems when I try to park in tight spaces or when I have to pay extra for the 3-D version of “Avatar” or “Frozen” because my grandkids want to see it that way.  The effect is lost on me.  I feel left out.  And freakish.

The Doc warned me that the laser zapping would leave floaters and I’m hoping that’s all it is now.  It’s a chore to read or write and they are my two favorite things to do in the world. But last night I watched “The Theory of Everything”, the movie about Stephen Hawking,  (Eddie Redmayne’s performance was just astounding)  and, honestly, I have nothing to complain about.

So I’ll stop now.

See ya.

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Don’t Hate Me For Being Old, But Don’t Love Me For It, Either

old woman BandWI’ve written before about being old, not because I’m proud of it or sad about it or wanting to exploit my age when all else fails (okay, I may have done that), but whenever I do it I feel the need to apologize for even bringing it up.  Talking about old age is boring.  It may be more boring than any other subject I know, except maybe that talk about having to walk a mile to school in a snowstorm.  Without boots.  Or a hat.

Aging is something that happens without our permission.  No matter what those ads say, it is permanent, irrevocable and out of our control.  In my case, aging doesn’t change who I am or alter the fact that I really, truly believe I’ll live forever.  Crinkly skin and creaking bones aside, I’m doing okay.

But  here I am, talking about it again.

I’ve been having trouble with one knee lately, so I’m using a walking stick.  That damned stick has changed everything!  Suddenly, people are all over me, wanting to help.  They lean into me (in case I’m hard of hearing, too), and use their best Kindergarten voices to let me know they’re there and they’re ready to help.

My god, I’m in Hell.

Sometimes I do need help.  Don’t we all?  But it’s not because I’m old, it’s because help is what I need.

Something else has happened:  Now, suddenly, because I walk with a stick and look the way I do, I am no longer capable of helping anyone else.  Those days are over, either permanently or until I can throw away the crutch, dye the gray away, get Botox treatments, remove those eye bags, pull that chicken neck tighter, suck in that gut, and lift those useless, drooping boobs. (Can somebody please tell me why boobs keep growing as we age?  Don’t we have enough trouble staying upright?)

I can still walk a mile (though much slower and not in your shoes), troubleshoot my own and my daughters’ laptops, drive across the state without being afraid of flashing blue lights behind me, and virtually, though not literally, kick ass when certain politicians get out of line.

I can still laugh and joke and at least seem like I know what I’m talking about. I used to be pretty good at Trivial Pursuit,but now the answers seem to have to struggle through the tangles of my brain.  (I hear their teeny-tiny voices saying, “Wait!  I’m coming!” so I know they’re on their way.)  But, since Trivial Pursuit isn’t my life’s calling,  I’m okay with it.  I’ll manage.

So please let me help when I offer to help.  It may take me a little longer to get the thing done but I promise I won’t offer to do more than I’m able.

Do me a favor:  Do not smile and coo and throw roses my way because I’m old.  My age doesn’t require congratulations.  It’s the least of who I am.  And, for god’s sake, stop asking me how I’m feeling.  I feel like steaming horse dung some days but I felt dungish some days when I was young, too.

In fact, do me another favor:  Ignore everything I’ve said here.  Pretend we never had this conversation.

I’m really not myself today.

 

(Also published at The Broad Side, my favorite feminist website)

Posted in Humor, Memoir | Tagged , , , , , | 14 Comments