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Mother’s Day 2022

Waiting for Summer


I am very much affected by the weather when it comes to writing, or creating, of any sort. The barometric pressure suddenly coming down on My Sinus meets with the sensation that I am (a) under water; and (b) the walls are closing in . . .


This delayed seasonal change is adversely affecting my creativity and my life. I expect summer and dry air in May!


These highly emotional repercussions are entirely fact-based. The moisture content in the air does markedly increase with the drop in atmospheric pressure, and I am quite sensitive to that physical alteration. Typically, and historically, spring in California, anywhere, is the warm, dry precursor to the voyage in the Gobi Desert known as Summer.


The claustrophobic perception that the walls are closing in on me, that intense awareness is a completely different matter.

With hand held to my forehead, I feel the need to flee the oppressive unchanging-ness of non-stop cloudy, chilly, humid weather that will last for 5-6 days. When you check the Online Weather Icon and it’s the same one (sunless) in a straight horizontal line, for days and days, the sense of The Unavoidable becomes, well, unavoidable.


My finely tuned fight-or-flight reaction has also become intensified by my understanding of the lunatic madness of the morons in my country. There are, presumably, millions of them. Or so the loud, screaming digitalese would have us believe.


There are, however, many, many more millions of the sensible, ethical, practical, industrious, God-fearing and sane among the populations in America. We need to smile amongst ourselves, We the Sane. We’re the ones with the sound thinking, and the fact-based reality, and the sense of humor. Humor is precious. Laughter verifiably is the best medicine.

We the Patriots are in the same big boat, which is approaching the size of an ocean liner. We’re not paddling a canoe up a creek. We’re moving, full steam ahead, riding atop a tidal wave that’s been decades in the making.


I know that protecting yourself from the loonies on the Left, and from the smirking cynics on the Right, can feel woefully inadequate to the occasion of The Ungodly Government Ghouls proclaiming, and then mass-ordaining, whatever is emergency-necessary to lie to the American People amidst an illegal death grip on power.


Cover-ups are messy business.


After a certain point, the pathetic and sick perpetrator spends all of his, or her, time engaging in the Cover-up.

Watergate was presumably the Mother of All Cover-ups, and yet, that mommy was a baby, compared to the 21st-century covert cabal of creepy crooks, cronies, deviants, freaks and sleazes of the Deep State, the Uniparty, the Progresso-Aristo Left, and whoever else is left from this unconstitutional ride on the bullet train to their own heads.


This “reality” makes me want to seek to find a truer reality in the writing of fiction.


This past week, I focused intensely on my writing, not as an escape from the horrendous and shabbily manufactured News, but as a means of affirming myself. Bravely, with single-minded effort, I ventured into discovering the world of Sophia Dolliver Charpentier in Bastogne, France during the summer of 1944. The more that I got into the work-at-hand, the more I saw the additional work that is not yet at-hand, or even nearby.

Such an experience can be overwhelming, even exhausting for a plow-horse like myself. I did not seek to flee from this arduous assignment; rather, I set about to prepare myself for the relentless focus that can, and does, place my loved ones to the sidelines of my every-day life.


With exhilaration, and a few sleepless nights, I categorized the materials I must read and review; and I lined up the specific technical info that I must glean, or re-glean. This novel, THE LAST WALTZ, has been an undertaking in progress for at least a decade.


Any fruition indicates a path that has been taken to wherever that actualization is today. Some products and certain results take longer than others to materialize, but, regardless of the time frame, whenever a momentous event is imminent, that consequential result has been in gestation for a while. It didn’t just happen The Moment It Happened.


That approach, or belief, might have sold newspapers in the past, but I don’t think it works nowadays for the click-bait industry. The human brain, in real-time, can surmise the instantaneous schtick as:

So foolish. So juvenile. So willfully superficial. So demeaning of making a living, and eking out a profit.


Every scandal attributed to the “alarming” collapse of the malefactors in America has its predecessor scandal that got covered up. There were enough Americans, far too many actually, among the electorate who felt okay with the slip-sliding of ethics, the profitable flaunting of fairness, the making light of heavy morality, and the shrugging off of principles — over the course of decades. The wink-wink Big Lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, and, if it did, it wouldn’t hurt them. It’ll hurt The Other Side.


It’s presently hurting many of those apologists, moral-relativists, outright hypocrites, and their phalanxes of paid hacks. I, a nurturing woman and mother, have absolutely no sympathy for those Americans who were fine and dandy with turning a blind eye to truth, justice, and the American way.


I feel no concern or compassion regarding the inevitable and deserved fates of the well-paid lackeys who were smugly okey-dokey with firing, fining, mashing, mauling, financially ruining, and putting into the pokey the scapegoat men and women who had been set up to take the fall for Mr. Big.

And they were so many Mr. Bigs! There have, in fact, been gobs of Mr. Bigs all along the road to this decadent detritus called Washington, D.C.


Call my stance Tough Love, if you will, toward the takers and the fakers who can’t stand the heat in the kitchen that they built with their ill-gotten gains, the purloined money of the little people they despise. Tough love is a survival skill. If you love your republic, enact tough love all the time to keep that republic safe, well-protected, prosperous, and running like a constitutional republic, not a den of perverts and thieves.


A republic is precisely what Founding Father Benjamin Franklin stated it is, if you can keep it.


Methinks we’re keeping it.


This morning, as part of celebrating My Mother’s Day, I went online at Stateline US, in search of olive-green or khaki clothing.


Army drab is the Newest Black. Military Olive is the latest chic. It’s the Must-Have you can’t have, or buy, or get delivered, at scandalous prices, to you, anytime, anywhere.

Every piece of merchandise in a military shade was sold out, with the exception of 1 pair of sweatpants in Small, in a quantity so limited that I speed-clicked my purchase. I half-expect to get the SOP email about The Delay, and, then, The Cancellation.


My friends at Stateline, however, have pulled through for me before, and often, and recently. Just yesterday, I requested a refund of a pair of sweatpants that I purchased for Dear Hubby in early April. The package got shipped, pronto, but it still was not here, at my doorstep, as of 5 May. I’ve checked Tracking so often during the past month that those digital tracks have worn their own groove.


Unlike some wives, I did not give Dear Hubby the Tracking Number for the Shipping Company so that he can locate the status and whereabouts of his own birthday present. I contacted Customer Service at Stateline. Ryan got right back to me on his me-Phone. He must have an app at this point for this type of Customer-Inquiry.


The Federal Delivery Business lost the package, weeks ago. But The Corporation did not inform the Vendor of this commodity casualty.


I ask you: Is that any way to run a business?

Perhaps the word, Federal, is dooming this capitalist enterprise that was a start-up in 1971, in Little Rock, Arkansas. Fifty-one years is a good run for an American business icon that soared to success during the Carter Years, boomed during the Reagan Economy, and, subsequently, and stupidly, conned itself into a corner of globalist marketing schemes. The latest dagger to its own heart is electric delivery trucks.


Can Big Brown be lugging far behind?


Dunno.


I do know that this American Original Entrepreneurial Success from Arkansas started that success with a button sales-gimmick that advised: Don’t Panic. The CEOs of this multinational conglomerate have gotta be panicking, today, over their imbecile wokeness reaping the rewards of brokeness.


I also know, via a courteous chap named Ryan, that the Hubby Sweats [in Khaki] have been expedited to me overnight-mail, For Free. Another lost-package-transaction gets eaten by the little guy.

President Ronald Reagan famously, forcefully, and glibly stated many truisms. The one about the little guy is one of the best from the Gipper, or Dutch.


Being authentically Dutch myself, I possess many irrepressible scruples about wasting money, or spending it foolishly, unwisely, extravagantly, with little or no practicality or utility. I have therefore tried, mightily, within the past few years, to nurture my citrus trees, especially my Meyer Lemon.


Little Meyer was purchased during the summer of 2018, after I moved out of the Peach House and began to oversee the Construction of the Dream House. During the summer of 2020, that thriving plant was transported in its large pot, from the rental dump to the nearly completed Dream Home.


Yes, like a mother-tree-bird, I watched over Little Meyer, along with a few other young citrus trees that I purchased and warehoused in their large pots.


This past spring, 2021, the three-year-old citrus and its agrume-siblings (species that grew marvelously in Newcastle) were transplanted into the wonderfully soft and nutrient-rich soil of the slope outside the window of the office of Dear Engineer-Contractor. I envisioned lovely and fruitful harvests from my Rio Ruby Red grapefruit, Satsuma mandarin, and dwarf orange (the tree, not the fruit, is dwarf).

Not one of them is doing well. In fact, they’re doing terribly. The winter freeze, frost, snow, wind, and chilly spring conditions in my new region have wreaked havoc with this horticulture. Mr. Meyer produced one lemon this past winter (which I used in cooking tomato sauce).


Faulty reconnaissance, I grimly concluded. There’s not one mandarin grove within five miles of my domicile.


But rhodies — rhododendrons — abound!


This past week, along with accepting the moist chilly temps, overcast skies, and a right sinus that feels like wet concrete, I accepted the demise of my citrus trees. I stated to my spouse that I’ll gladly trade them for several rhododendron of my color choices — to be planted — on that gentle slope by his window — for Mother’s Day.


Dear Hubby has spectacularly fulfilled that request. I asked him if he would take some pix of the defunct citrus to use in this essay. With somber indignation, he pronounced:

“No, I will not. Have some respect for The Dead.”


I suggest my fellow Americans follow my lead on this one. Not that The Dead always deserve our respect, but your soul is ennobled by that show of dignity called silence. This long-revered tradition in America has its origins in several Books of the Bible. I’ll simply call it another instance of true American scripture:


“If you can’t say something good about someone, don’t say anything at all.”


Besides, actions speak louder than words!


As for me, I shall be spending this weekend reading Gray’s Anatomy. This 2006 Christmas Present was lovingly and dutifully given to me by Dear Son. Upon unwrapping the weighty reference known as “the doctor’s Bible”, I immediately thought it was one of those fake-book-covers for a DVD series of a show I hadn’t seen, and never will. Those faux-libraries currently create the wallpapered “reality” of zoom-meetings for anyone aspiring to appear literary, or even literate.


My Gray’s Anatomy is the real thing!


So is this mother’s love.