On the Cusp of Hallow's Eve

 

Sometimes, I have to be careful when I open my eyes.

Everything changes.

I swear Elizabeth Warren is President of the United States. I swear I'm physically fit, that I look no more than 35, that my hair has only a tinge of grey. I swear I'm living near Portland, Oregon. I swear that my acting resume is one of the most varied and envied entries on IMDb. 

I swear that my parents are still alive. I swear that my children are preteens living at home. I swear that we have Medicare For All.

I swear that Alison just whispered, "Get off the bed." I swear I heard a knock on the door. I swear that something has crashed in the house - a shattered glass, a knick-knack, a stack of books.

I swear all this and more. And then I open my eyes.

President Warren never happened. Instead, we are in the grips of an orange grifter madman. I'm 71, and I can feel my age, and my hair is fully white. I live in Blackshear, Georgia - one of the most Tumpy places in the entire world. My acting resume is community theatre, which I do less and less often.

My parents are gone, in body but not in spirit. My children are grown, but they are well, happy, and thriving. Universal healthcare does not exist, and that, my friends, is sad beyond all measure.

Alison did not whisper to me. She is there, by my side, and we are soon to celebrate 30 years of marriage. Pixie is here, and so are Scout and Gemma. Nothing crashed in the house, except for those things Gemma pushes off tables and furniture.

I open my eyes. It's soon Halloween. There are many scary things.

It's tempting to keep your eyes closed. But then you would also miss the beautiful things in life. And despite the darkness, there is light worth seeing. There is love worth finding and participating in.

It's only when I open my eyes that I can seek out and get warmed by the light.

Endorsements and Speculations: Saturday Political Soapbox 307* (But on a Monday)

 We'll start with some hard truths as pronounced in the meme above.  We can add the $5,000 you won't get even if Republicans win; the cost of living and inflation are not improving; the treasonous slowing of Starlink; the waxing poetic about men's asses; the mysterious noises and incoherent sentences; the fixation on helipads and ballrooms.  And countless other nonsense.  But I digress.

 ENDORSEMENTS

You will not be stunned to learn that I endorse Democrats across the ticket.  There may come a time when voting for Republicans could be considered, once we break free of Trump and MAGA.  We are not there yet, but that day may be fast approaching.

Senator Jon Ossoff has proven his worth as an effective, often bipartisan Senator, someone who will act as a representative for ALL Georgians.  His smart and sweeping rhetoric puts him at the top of the political class.  Mike Collins has proven to be a simple shill for the Orange Grifter and is riddled with nazi sympathizers. 

Former Atlanta Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms is a competent administrator who will serve the State of Georgia well.  You may not believe this, because her corrupt billionaire opponent has used his own money to flood the airwaves with vile and misleading ads.  I dread what may happen to Georgia if this corrupt bigot, Rick Jackson, who made a fortune out of exploiting the healthcare system, gets a hold of the levers of power. 

Amanda Hellowell, running for First District Congressperson, will put the interests of everyday Georgians far ahead of the elite few whose money controls much of our politics.  She is a much better choice than nepo-baby Jack Kingston, who will simply be a rubber-stamp for the billionaire/Trump Epstein class.

PREDICTIONS

Anyone who looks back at my past predictions, it's not pretty.  I'm too biased to predict Republicans winning.

That said, barring election shenanigans by Trump and pals (I'm looking at you, Elon Musk), this should be a blue tsunami. Many Republican-controlled states have tried to rig congressional districts to favor themselves, but many of these will backfire, particularly Texas, where the Latino vote they counted on in 2024 is decidedly moving away from them.  They have succeeded in diluting their districts by trying to stretch too thin, reducing their base margins in many districts.

I think the Democrats will gain 25 to 40 seats in the House.  You want one number? 29.

I think the Democrats will retake the Senate, but by a small margin.  I'm hoping they gain 10, but I fear it may be as low as five.  That margin will look even thinner if John Fetterman officially becomes a Republican. Hopefully, the margin will be big enough to slow the process of cabinet and judicial nominations.

This will not make everything sunshine and rainbows. The Dark Lord will still be at the top, throwing his feces everywhere. He'll make sure no one participates in Congressional hearings; he'll veto and ignore legislation; he'll continue making idiotic executive orders.  THe Supreme Court will sill side with the ultra-right about 90% of the time.

And the Epstein Class leader will use Congress as a scapegoat, blaming them for everything, trying to be Trumanesque in his assault on Congress, and paving the way for a comeback in 2028.  And we have enough low-information voters and MAGA heads to make that a real threat.

If we ever get the progressive resurgence that this country needs to survive, we must remain focused and vigilant. The Congress must vote for popular progressive legislation - let Trumplestiltskin be the villain for vetoing it. Yes, investigate the crimes of his administration, but do not let it be the sole focus.  Should Trump be impeached? A million times yes for a myriad of crimes!  Should the House waste eons of time doing it?  Sadly, no.

Until next time, 

T. M. Strait

AOC '28

Return From Vermont

 Yes, I'm back.

Back from a refreshing trip to the Catskills and Vermont.

Vermont was one of the few of the continental states that I have not visited. I'm sorry it took so long, because it was beautiful.No wonder so many Hallmark movies end up here.

We visited three towns in Vermont: Bennington, Rutland, and Middlebury. We visited Antique shops, museums, bookstores, and coffee shops. We took in the mountains, rivers, waterfalls, and the colorful autumn foliage.

We also visited my son, daughter-in-law, and our beautiful, brilliant, and energetic four-and-a-half-year-old grandchild.

And something special happened that I have been waiting for years to happen. I had not been able to read to her on previous visits. She wasn't mean, but she was active and would not sit still for it.  

The first story I read to her, from the Princess In Black series, she roamed around the room like she usually does, but I knew she was paying attention because she would react to story events and answer when I asked her questions or involved her in the story.

After that, she wanted me to read the stories to her while she sat next to me on the sofa. I read many, many stories to her, several each day.

When we got back from our Vermont excursion and visited with them again, she had gotten a Princess in Black costume, and I read her those stories while she wore that!

Just a reminder that her parents do not want her image on social media, so I understand and respect that. It's not easy for a proud grandpa to exercise that restraint, but I realize this is a crazy world, and I want her to be protected.

This has been a very busy month for me, with the trip, chores, and job responsibilities. I have neglected this blog, and I apoligize. I hope to return to some regular features soon, including columns from Rose Aldridge, political commentary, 100 great science fiction films of the 20th century, more fiction, and meandering musings.

Until next time,

T. M. Strait

AOC '28

Bottoms, Ossof, Talarico, Sayad, et al., '26!

Ongola Learns Defiance: Bryd's Rising Part 1

 

"Ongola!"

What did she want now? Is there nothing sacred to her? This was his time to explore the Bander Forest. He could smell his prey, just behind the waving weeds.

"It's supper time, ya little doof! We're having Sloppy Joes a la Mode!'

That was a heaping serving of ground turkey, resting atop a mound of mashed sweet potatoes. Dang! That was his favorite. Guess it was time to call a temporary truce in his gorki hunt.  

Ongola was last to the table. He was beaten out by his mother, his mother, his brother, and his sister. "Have you washed your hands?" asked his Ma.  

"Yes," Ongola lied.

He scooped a generous portion of mashed sweet potatoes, buttered it, and topped it with a dollop of honey. Then the seasoned ground turkey was added, so much that you could no longer see the sweet potato. Finally, he suirted on almost a thid of a bottle of ketchup. Some of the other family members added pickles and mustard. Pa even added some diced onions. Pa was weird.

"We need to go over what chores y'all are responsible for," Pa said, talking while he was still chewing. That made a pretty picture. "Some of y'all are getting pretty lax."

His brother, Kicker, was three years older than Ongola and waited politely until he finished chewing. Where those kind of manners came from in this family, Ongola wasn't sure. Not even Ma taught that. "You can be exhausting, Pa.  Did you just have us so you could exploit us for slave labor?"

"Nah," said Pa, still chewing, flecks of food going everywhere. "If that was the case, I would have a dozen of ya instead of just three."

The children laughed, but Ma did not. She turned pale, as if she couldn't keep her food down. Ongola felt like Ma thought that three difficult childbirths were enough for her, thank you very much.

"Don't mind Kicker, Pa," reassured Phoenix. "He fusses at everything. Just tell us what you want, I'm sure we can fit it in." Phoenix was the oldest, fifteen, struggling with the march through puberty toward adulthood.

Pa re-divvied out the chores, and the children reluctantly agreed. They knew they would do the best they could, but also knew they would be hearing this again in a couple of months. Pa was not a cruel taskmaster, and drifting from the ideal was inevitable.

There was a loud knock on the door. Pa got up and opened it, and there was the towering, blubberly figure of Constable Billy Wheat. With him was a man none in the house knew. He wasn't quite as tall as Constable Billy, but he was in much better shape. "This here is Knight Ezekiel Smith. We got a special message regarding your son, Kicker."

Well, this can't be good. You didn't want to do anything that would cause a Knight to visit you. They never have good news. 

"Well, Mr. Byrd, I must inform you of the trouble your son, Kicker, is causing at the Divine Kingdom School. He is repeating half-cracked-pot stories of godless communism. Where he's getting ideas like that in his head, we don't know. But we aim to find out."

"Well, he ain't getting them here. We don't cotton to such books here. We got the Holy Bible, and the Kingdom Guide to Greater Glory. That's it!" Pa said.

"At this point, we make no illusions about where he got those ideas. That's what we need to find out. To discover the truth, we need to take Kicker with us and bring him to the Young Followers Reeducation Camp."

Sweat dripped down Pa's face. "Now that ain't necessary, Mr. Knight, Sir. I'll get him straightened out toot sweet, you better believe it."

The Knight was stoic. Nothing could shake him. "We need to find out where he learned this heresy. We can only do that at the Camp. We need to be certain of the truth."

Pa pleaded. "No. You won't need to do that. He'll tell you right here and now. Tell 'em, Kicker. Where did you get these fool notions?"

Kicker didn't want to go with him, but there was no way he was throwing anyone else under the bus. "Can't say for sure. I think it was mostly osmosis."

The Knight scoffed. "You have raised a very sarcastic child, Mr. Byrd. Discussion time is over. Constable, take this wicked child away."

The constable grabbed Kicker by the arm. Ma threw herself at Kicker, trying to hold him back. "No!" she cried. "We're good people. You can't just take our son!"

"You need to teach your woman her place in the hierarchy," the Knight said. 

They left with Kicker. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  

A fire of defiance built in Ongola's heart. Somehow, some way, he was going to get his brother back.

'

The Clean-up Urge - Rose Aldridge Column #7

I continue to experiment with the visual quality of the columns. We found where Rose had stored the first year of newspapers in which her columns appeared, and this image is from those papers. It should eliminate the crease problem for a while. I have also experimented with a scan app that is on my phone, but I have not yet successfully figured out how to get those to my desktop. I'll keep trying.

 

This is a common theme that will run through many of her columns. I can't say what it was like while she was younger, with a husband and raising Alison. My own observations were that, when I would see her home from 1996 on, cleaning ... was not the highest priority. But it wasn't unlivable. When she lost a lot of mobility in the last few years, problems would increase, but she did get a maid service.

I don't really like things too messy. On the other hand, I like places to look 'lived in' - not sterile. The recent trend against having books in your house seems insane to me. Books are the identifying soul of a household. 

It's terribly easy to let your mind be consumed by obsessive cleaning, pristine yardwork, polished cars, or anything that takes up so much of your time that you can't stop to smell the roses.

Of course, it's always good to have things clean enough to smell them.

Quick! Who's Your Best Friend?

Quick! Who's your best friend?

 Scout and Gemma have no trouble answering. True, they are the only two cats in our household, but I'm still happy they have bonded. 

The only other pet in the household is Pixie, who has no interest in them. Pixie's best friend is Alison. Pixie basically ignores the cats unless they seem to compete for Alison's attention. Then he turns into a lunging Snarllagaphalious. Pixie has no teeth, and doesn't realize her threats are ... toothless.

Alison has no trouble identifying her best friend. She has reestablished her connection to her childhood friend, Cheryl. They share friend groups and hobbies, and they see each other several times a week.

It made me wonder, though. Who is my best friend?

So I asked Alison, "Quick! Who is my best friend?"

Her answer was swift and direct - "Me."

That is true. She has been my best friend for over thirty years now. Our 30th wedding anniversary will be this November 9th.

But- thinking beyond the scope of marriage and loving spouse, who is my best friend?

I have none. And haven't for quite a while.

Most of my friendships come from the moment, within specific environments or events. I was friendly with work associates, but little that extended past work. I am friendly to many of my fellow parishioners at church, but nothing that extends much past church events.

I have made many friends while in community productions. But only rarely have any of those friendships extended beyond the production's closing.

And now, I rarely do plays anymore. I have found a disconnect due to age. I am usually the oldest person in the cast, sometimes as much as 20 years older than the next-oldest cast member. Doing fewer plays also means I am not as tightly bonded with many of the more frequent performers. Many of them also come from the same church.

I have no close friends from high school, college, or other places I lived. They have all faded away.

I did have a best friend through high school. We went to separate colleges and did not reunite until after college, when he had moved to Atlanta and was preparing to be a pastor in the United Methodist Church, studying theology at Emory University. I came down to visit him and soon moved myself, marrying his girlfriend's best friend. 

We drifted apart when he moved back to Michigan to pastor a church there. For the last three decades, I have lost contact with him.

I'm not writing any of this for sympathy. As it goes - "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina!"* Most of this is rooted in my own personality. I am an introvert who craves some contact but is also often content with my own life, hobbies, and interests. I certainly steer away from social events that would leave me anxious and paralyzed.

Although not necessarily best friends, I have had as many female friends as male friends. I like group activities that are mixed - that have both sexes in them, such as the plays, some church activities, and the library Thriller Book Club. The conversations in these groups are more blended. All-male groups tend to talk about college football, golf, and right-wing politics, much more than I can stomach listening to. All-female groups broach in-depth topics like childbirth, appearances, sharper gossip, and complaints about men. Yes, those are broad stereotypes - they're not always true.

Since I don't truly have a best friend (outside of family), I have to be careful not to overestimate how close I am to people or overshare. Nobody is that interested in micro-comments about my health, my politics, or my attitudes about things like tattoos and piercings. Sometimes, when you share your thoughts with someone you don't know well, you may say something that doesn't match their experience. My thoughts on suicide and suicide attempts may run counter to other people, especially if I don't know their background or their own experiences.

But I digress too much. I love my readers, but they are not my best friends either. Social media can trick us that way.

Still, it does help me to write my thoughts, and I appreciate all who have read them, new and long-time readers, both.

Until nest time.

T. M. Strait

AOC '28

*Speaking of Madonna, she is only roughly three years younger than me. She was in a high school in a nearby town, one I had a speech contest in when she was a freshman. Can you imagine me in a friendship with Madonna? There's a twisted road not taken!

We're nominated for 'Parents of the Year' - Rose Aldridge Column #6

 I'm going to have to do this one slightly differently. My sources are Blackshear Times columns found at the library. Sometimes, the columns are on the crease of the paper, and you can't flatten the volume enough to see all the words. So, for this one, I'm going to need to retype the first column of print. I'm going to have to intuit some of the missing words, so if I get it wrong, it's clearly my fault.

We're Nominated for Parents of the Year

    Johnny and I should be getting our nominations for the "Parents of the Year" award any day now, thanks to our actions at the time of the accident.

    What accident? For the one that put Alison's arm in a cast, up past her elbow, of course.

    The one that happened because she didn't tie her shoelace, which got caught in her bike pedal and landed her on the pavement.

    Yes, we're sure winners for the award, because of our cool-headed control over the whole situation.

    How much more cool-headed can you be than we were- we didn't believe anything was wrong with her until she started crying in the middle of the night.

    So, as a result, her arm wasn't set until the next day.

And now, we return to normal transmission - 

Well, Alison was not alone. I received a similar injury around the same age as Alison, maybe a little younger; a kid pushed me out of our garage window. This may have been all of a whopping three feet off the ground, but I instinctively braced myself with my arm. This turned out to be a very bad plan.

I was outside, screaming in pain. My parents, both inside the house, just thought, "Well, there's Tom, screaming his head off over nothing again!"  That is, until my Dad happened to glance outside and see my arm dangling at the point halfway between my wrist and elbow.

My broken arm was not as easy to dismiss as Alison's, so I did get taken to the hospital fairly quickly. So, Alison and I can bond over our childhood broken arms.

If you think that's an interesting coincidence, wait until you hear about our son, Benjamin!