Vicki Lane Mysteries
Words and pictures from the author of And the Crows Took Their Eyes as well as the Elizabeth Goodweather Appalachian Mysteries . . .
Saturday, July 27, 2024
A Giddy Delight
Friday, July 26, 2024
Thursday, July 25, 2024
What a Beauty!
Wednesday, July 24, 2024
Moonrise? Sunrise?
Tuesday, July 23, 2024
Monday, July 22, 2024
The Joy of Bubbles...and a Sunday Surprise
I'm with her. For the sake of Josie and all the other little girls who deserve to grow up in a world where they are not second-class citizens, valued only as baby-makers, a world where climate change is taken seriously, and the social safety net is preserved.
Sunday, July 21, 2024
Manhattan Beach
Saturday, July 20, 2024
Josie (and Otter) in Recovery
Friday, July 19, 2024
Thursday, July 18, 2024
If, On a Hot Summer Evening. . .
Wednesday, July 17, 2024
Baby Blues
Tuesday, July 16, 2024
A Delightful Jigsaw Puzzle
Monday, July 15, 2024
What Can I Do?
The recent ruling from the Supreme Court, coming on top of Biden’s weak performance at the
debate and the ensuing pearl-clutching amongst Dem politicos, not to mention
the growth of authoritarianism all over the world, and brutal wars in Ukraine,
Gaza, and Sudan, and, oh yes, the downward spiral of our planet’s environment
has left me . . . what?
I think I’m
by nature optimistic but at the same time, fairly cynical. A difficult
combination to be sure.
When faced
with an unpleasantness, my first thought is to ask what, if anything, I can do
about it. If it’s dog poop on the rug, I can deal with it. If it’s the existential breakdown of life as we know it, my options are more limited.
At my age
and with my limited mobility, marching and protesting is right out. No one
wants to be the elderly woman overcome by heat in the crowd. And in the
seriously MAGA rural environment in which I live, going door to door in an
attempt to change minds seems like an exercise in futility which would only
endanger the live-and-let-live policy we’ve adopted with our neighbors for the
past fifty years.
I can write
letters or make calls to my congress persons, send some small amounts of money
to progressive political organizations. (The cynical part of me doubts any of
this does any good.) Of course, I can and will vote at every chance (no matter
what the cynical one whispers.)
So, what
does one do in these perilous times, when our country seems to be lurching into
a quasi-dictatorship, when money buys SCOTUS justices, when the Republican
candidate promises tax breaks and deregulation in exchange for dollars, when
the whole of the Republican party seems eager to embrace a man I wouldn’t have
in my house?
At 81, I
suspect I won’t live to see the worst of these trends mature. But I worry about
those who will. Though I’d be okay with catastrophic flooding in Mar-a-Lago. Oh, wait, DeSantis is taking care of that by keeping climate change
out of the textbooks.
As for our 81 year old president—he has accomplished more and still makes more sense than the red-hatted loon, raving about sharks and batteries and exploding trees. And should Biden prove incapable, Kamala Harris is an excellent backup. Query: Has the GOP forgotten that as Reagan sank into Altheimer's, Nancy Reagan's astrologer may have been running things?
As a matter
of fact, the Democrats could nominate the proverbial yellow dog, or a wad of
belly button lint and I’d vote for it rather than the anointed one of Project
2025.
So I retreat into the precept of an unknown Zen master:
Brew the tea correctly. See that the house is warm in winter and cool in summer.
Breathe. . .