There You Have It

Well, there you have it.  Donald John Trump is our 45th President of the United States.  I was devastated when he won because I so wanted a woman in the Oval Office.  And, because I didn’t believe all the propaganda about Hillary.  I also wanted Hillary to win because I believe Donald Trump is not a man of the moral fiber I want as my President.

But, there you have it.  He is the President.  Like it or not.  No going back.  A recount failed, and that’s about $5,000,000 that might have been better spent on affordable housing or feeding the hungry.  The electorate didn’t have a landslide of “rogue” voters.  It is a done deal.  Many are saying, “Get over it,” or “Move on,” or “Deal with it.”

Okay, I’m willing to deal with it, but I may never get over it.  And, I will move on. I will read my constitution so I will know when DJT violates it.  Then I will hold him accountable.  I will also have to listen to his press conferences and follow his Executive whatevers.  Not that I want to – I don’t.  I really don’t ever want to see his face on TV or hear his voice on the radio.  I don’t want to read column after column on what he’s doing.  But, I will.  I need to be informed.  I need to know what he thinking, doing, attempting, everything, every day.

So, I will listen to his speeches, his press conferences, his radio voice, anything, anywhere I can get my hands on what this man is doing.  Because, if I don’t I have no leg to stand on when life in America goes south due to this man’s actions.  And, I urge you to do the same.  We must be united.  DJT won this election because he practiced the rule “Divide and conquer.”  He divided Americans as no other politician has in maybe decades.  He conquered the electoral vote, not the popular vote.  He won.

So folks, united we stand, divided we fall.  See all those people in the above photo? Let’s all unite to hold the man walking to be sworn in as the 45th President accountable for everything he does.  And, when he fails to do anything, anything that is not in the best interests of all Americans,  we must, as a united front, call him on it and not let him get away with it.  And, when I say “all,” I don’t just mean those who voted for Hillary, or Johnson, or Stein, but ALL people in America, even those who didn’t vote for anyone or voted for Trump.  We must be vigilant, we must guarantee that the values and freedoms we hold dear as Americans are upheld.  I know we can do it.  So, let’s get started.


Scary, Scary Times

I voted for Hillary.  While I know she was part of the establishment, but there was simply no way I could ever vote for DJT.  Never. No way. Ever.

For me these are going to be scary, scary times.  Consider the CEO of Exxon being considered for Secretary of State who has “relations” with Putin.  Consider the number of Generals selected for Cabinet posts.  Sound like a coup a brewing?  Maybe.  So, I came across this advice on the web, and I am going to try and follow it and then, pray, pray, pray harder, and hope our Republic survives.

Ten Things we can do when Trump is President


Evan McMullin (Former CIA agent)

  1. Read and learn the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. Know that our basic rights are inalienable.
  2. Identify and follow many credible sources of news. Be very well informed and learn to discern truth from untruth.
  3. Watch every word, decision and action of Trump and his administration extremely closely, like we have never done before in America.
  4. Be very vocal in every forum available to us when we observe Trump’s violations of our rights and our democracy. Write, speak, act.

  1. Support journalists, artists, academics, clergy and others who speak truth and who inform, inspire and unite us.
  2. Build bridges with Americans from the other side of the traditional political spectrum and with members of diverse American communities.
  3. Defend others who may be threatened by Trump even if they don’t look, think or believe like us. An attack on one is an attack on all.
  4. Organize online and in person with other Americans who understand the danger Trump poses and who are also willing to speak up.
  5. Hold members of Congress accountable for protecting our rights and democracy through elections and by making public demands of them now.

  1. And finally, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, have “malice toward none, with charity for all” and never ever lose hope!

When You Say Nothing At All

When You Say Nothing At All is a sweet sentimental song I heard the other day.  Your smile. The truth in your eyes. Your touch. Almost made me want to cry. Well, maybe.  Like when I was young and the hormones were raging, romance was blooming, and all was right with the world.  No words needed. Sigh.

Image result for image two lovers gazing at each other

Fast forward. My spouse is almost 84.  I’m 77.  We’re way beyond romantic, gaze-in-your-eyes crap.  Depending on the day, I may want him say nothing at all. Like, shut up and leave me alone nothing. Or I may want him to say something – something brilliant.Image result for old couple yelling at each other

These days, however, our conversations approach near lunacy.  “When are we going to the theatre?” he asks.  “I just told you this morning it’s tonight.”  “No, you didn’t.”  “Yes dear, I did.” “Did not.” “Did too.”  “Did not.” “Did too.” We are transported back to third grade recess. Na-na-na-na-nah. Perhaps I should say nothing at all.

Image result for third grade kids arguing

I mean really, he either doesn’t hear me, doesn’t want to hear me, doesn’t remember hearing me, or has completely gone over the edge. Worse, he will say, “Remember I told you I invited Sam for dinner tonight?”  “What? Are you kidding me, you never mentioned it.” He says, “Yes, I did. I think you’re losing your memory.”  “Really? Well, let me remind you that I am 6 ½ years younger than you and have way more memory left.” He says, “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you?”  “Well, then get hearing aids. I have mine on.” He shouts “Well, they aren’t working very well.” “Are too.” “Are not.”  “Are too.” “Are not.” Nah-na-na-na-nah.

Image result for hearing problems images

And so it goes.  And trust me, even if I used sign language, I guarantee something would be lost in the translation. He’d probably say, “Something’s wrong with your fingers, and stop pointing at me.”  You know, to maintain our sanity and our marriage, we probably both should just say nothing at all.

Image result for old couple yelling at each other


It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart
Without saying a word you can light up the dark
Try as I may I could never explain
What I hear when you don’t say a thing

The smile on your face lets me know that you need me
There’s a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me
The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall
You say it best when you say nothing at all

All day long I can hear people talking out loud
But when you hold me near, you drown out the crowd
Old Mr. Webster could never define
What’s being said between your heart and mine

The smile on your face lets me know that you need me
There’s a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me
The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall
You say it best when you say nothing at all

The smile on your face lets me know that you need me
There’s a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me
The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall
You say it best when you say nothing at all

Potty Parity

I can remember oh, way back in the 1980’s when women were screaming about “potty parity.”  “Why don’t we have more stall in our public facilities?”

“It isn’t fair.  Men have the same number of stalls, but us women go to the bathroom in much greater numbers. We have to wait for—ever, like because well, um, er just because.”

Image result for man looking into bathroom stallWe need more stalls.”

Well, the upshot was we women got more stalls.  We still have to wait in long lines.  What’s up? My theory is men have bigger bladders so they don’t have to “go” as often.  Why?  Simple.  They were out there in the wilds being hunter gatherers and needed to hold “it” longer.

Furthermore, they have these things called urinals which hastens the pee time to practically nil.  In, unzip, pee, shake, zip, out the door. And I seriously doubt men ever wash their hands.  Ever. Really? Who knows for sure, but that’s my story and…you know the rest.

Today, we have a different kind of potty parity being parlayed throughout the land.  Okay, not the entire land, but a big part of the land.  It’s called the “Bathroom Law.”  I call it potty dis-parity, for lack of a better word.  By now everyone in the world has heard about it. It’s the law that says a pre-operation transgender person must use the public restroom of their genetic, or biological gender.

The reason behind this law is rather, uh, stupid.  A group of supposedly intelligent legislators decided that if a transgender male to female used the female bathroom his hormones might rise to unimagined levels and he might rape a girl.  They threw in women’s locker rooms to protect college athletes.  Mind you, this has never happened.  Ever.

The flip side of this law is a female to male tranny might what? Go into the men’s room and seduce a man?  This has never happened either.  So imagine this…you will see what appears to be a woman walking into a men’s room, past the urinals, and into the stall to pee, come out, wash her hands, and leave. And, you will see what appears to be a male walking into a woman’s room, standing in line with everyone else, finally getting a stall, peeing, and leaving.  Remember, men don’t wash hands.

The most logical next question is this: How or who is going to check these trannie genitals?  Will there be a guard at the doors who will ask each person to pull up his or her dress, or drop his or her drawers, pull down that thong or undie for a “G-check?”  That’s “Genital-check.”

Image result for man looking into bathroom stall

Perhaps they will have special staff who do nothing but go around looking under or over stall doors for compliance.

Maybe they will install hidden cameras in every stall to take a peek as the task is being accomplished.  Maybe there will be foot sensors on the floor that will determine if a “woman” is peeing with her shoes facing toward the back rather than the front.  Come on.  Am I the only one who sees the inherent insanity in this whole bathroom law?

Why should I care?  Because I am the mother of a transgender male to female, and I understand the implications of gender dysphoria.  These people aren’t kidding you.  This isn’t some condition that can be cured, or turned on or off.  This is real.  These people while genetically one gender, are psychologically the opposite gender.  To force them into a bathroom not of their psychological gender is an embarrassing and debasing situation.  Think about it.  If you as a genetic male were suddenly forced to use the ladies room how would you feel?  Or you, as a genetic female were forced to use the men’s room, how would you feel?  Listen stupid, trannies feel exactly the same way.  Because it isn’t about what’s between your legs, it’s about what’s in your heart and head.

To all ignorant legislators who either have already passed this inane law, please repeal it.  And, if you are even thinking about passing such a law, forget about it. There is a simple answer.  Make all our restrooms unisex.  Eliminate those nasty urinals, put in extra stalls, and you’ll for sure have potty parity, not dis-parity.

Restrooms > Gender Neutral > Sign

Going Home

While in seminary we lived at the Capital Yacht Club in D.C. aboard our boat.  Arriving home after class one gray, drizzly day, dock-mate Rhoda ran up to me, sobbing uncontrollably.  “S,s,s,Sam ran out of his 9 lives. We want to b, b, bury him at sea.  Would you do a f, f, funeral service?”  Gosh, my first funeral, I couldn’t say no.  Donning clerical garb, grabbing my prayer book, I boarded Tom’s john boat.  Rhoda and Sam were aboard.  At the end of the Washington Channel, Tom shut down the engine as all eyes scanned the water for marine police.  Apparently it is illegal to bury any dead body in the channel.

In my most reverent voice, I started.  “Grant that your servant will be resurrected with…” Oops, I don’t think cats are resurrected.  And, I know cats aren’t servants. I continued, “We remember this day our brother….” Oops.  Sam is not human.  Dodging further human references, I commended Sam’s soul to God, committed his body to the deep, and prayed for the grieving Rhoda.  Sam was in a large, square box.  I nodded to Tom to throw Sam overboard.  Rhoda stood ready to toss rose petals on Sam. Splash. Oh. My. God. The box was floating.

Image result for images of floating styrofoam box

Hauling in the bobbing Styrofoam box, we opened it, and wrapped in a plastic bag, tied to two cinder blocks, lay Sam’s cold rigid body.  Rhoda became hysterical. I knew the police would arrive and arrest us.  Tom stood stone mute. Nobody moved. A torrential rain drenched us.  I said, “Forget the damn box. Just throw Sam and the cinder blocks overboard.”  Tom did.  Rhoda emptied her bag of rose petals. Sam sank and went home, over the rainbow bridge.  We motored home sucking up the rain. WOW. My first funeral – priceless.

A Good Hair Day

We all (at least the ladies) know what a bad hair day is, right?  I have them regularly, like right now.  Today I’m waiting for guests to come and play bridge, and I sit here with bad hair.  Really bad.  I even need a haircut. Well, into the shower, wash, wash, rinse, rinse, condition, blow dry, poof – “Good Hair Day!

But what is a “Good Hair Day?”  Really?  I recall my wedding day (both of them) and one of the main priorities was that my hair look perfect!  Not close, or nearly so, but perfect.  If that meant hours at a hairdresser and a bag over my head until the event, so be it.  There is something about hair that we women obsess over.  Ask my daughters – I nag about their hair all the time.

At a conference years ago a black woman said that white women obsess about weight and black women obsess about hair.  I disagree.  I think women of any color obsess about both of them!  The scale may just tip a bit more to one side than the other for some.  Skinny women with perfect hair don’t obsess about much of anything, but perfect women like that are robots.  Fat women with rotten hair obsess about both and then there is everyone in between and you can place yourself wherever you want on the continuum.

I wonder however, if we would know a “Good Hair Day,” when we had one.  You see, a “Good Hair Day,” is as much about how we feel about ourselves as how our hair actually looks.  I have had one of the best hair days in my life lying in the ICU after having major surgery and surviving it.  I know my hair looked like hell, my face was bloated beyond recognition due to the eight hours of surgery lying face down on the gurney, and the hospital gown did nothing to enhance the blob of body lying in that bed connected to a dozen kinds of tubes.  But….it was a “Good Hair Day!”

I think too that a “Good Hair Day” is also about how good we feel when we say or do something that makes someone else feel better or live a better life.  Or how we feel when we’ve done something to help ease the aches and pains and sorrows of the world around us.  For Christmas last year and this year, I gave several bee hives, with instructions and all the parts including the bees, to families in third world countries to help them earn a living.  I felt good about that.  It was another “Good Hair Day.”

Have a “Good Hair Day,” even if you are having a bad hair day!

When the Wheel Comes Off

It was Sunday, April 10th, just a little after Noon, and we were crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel returning from a trip to Florida. The speed limit was reduced to 50 mph and the wind was howling a steady 40 mph with gusts up to 60 mph, and white caps on the bay.

White caps on the Chesapeake
White caps on the Chesapeake

Our silver mini-van, affectionately called “Minerva,” was buffeted about, but stayed true and steady on the path.  The bridge is 12-miles long and we were in the last 600 yards when i heard what sounded like a small rock hitting the side of the van.

“What’s that?” I asked my spouse, R, as we tooled along.


“Didn’t you hear that sound?”


Back to reading my book.  Not more than two minutes passed when there was a loud rattling sound.

“What’s that noise?” I asked R.

“That’s just the luggage rack rattling.”


Another minute passed. “You know that doesn’t sound like the luggage rack sound.”

“You may be right.”

“Let’s pull over on the next side street and take a look around.”  We did. We both got out of the van and peered at all four tires, under the van, and over the van.  Shrugged as we found nothing visually amiss.  Hopped back in and went back to highway 13 in Cape Charles, Virginia.  The noise was louder now and more a clunking sound than a rattle.  R put on his flashers and slowed down to about 20 mph as I looked up the nearest gas station.  It was 1.7 miles ahead.  We clattered and clunked along.

We pulled into the station.  I went to the ladies room, R went in to ask about the nearest repair facility.  It was a Shell station 7 miles up the road. Back out on the road, we started up the highway.  Not 100 feet later the clunking sounded like a train running us over.

“This van is not going to make it seven miles. Let’s go back to the Citgo station.”

Then the van started to shake, the steering wheel had a quivering life of its own.  R made a quick U-turn across the divided highway, sidled over onto the shoulder, and crept up to the gas station entrance.  Twenty feet into the parking area, the left front wheel clunked off the van and started its independent journey headed for the highway.

2016-04-09 13.07.42 - Copy

Sheared bolt, four unscrewed bolts. Off goes the wheel
Sheared bolt, four unscrewed bolts. Off goes the wheel

Jolted, but unhurt, both R and I jumped out of the van in pursuit of the meandering tire.  Fortunately, it hit a curb, swerved to the left, and just averted heading into the oncoming traffic when I caught up with it and stopped its progress.  Phew, that was close.

“AAA, may I help you?”

“Sure, we need a long tow.  How many miles do we get for a free tow?” Luckily, we had the premium level coverage.

“You get 100 miles free for any tow, but only one free 200 mile tow per year.”

“Yah.  We need a 120 mile tow.”

Up on the flat bed, Minerva. You're going for a long ride
Up on the flat bed, Minerva. You’re going for a long ride

Four hours later, two in the cab of the tow truck, we are nestling the van in front of the repair shop.  They will pay to have the work done since they had just taken the four wheels off to install new struts and shock, the day before our trip to Florida.  Obviously, the nuts on one tire had not been torqued.

But, the weirdest part for me a least, was that I never worried about any consequences until it was all over and I realized we could both have been killed, along with perhaps several others, had that wheel come off as we were traveling perhaps 65 mph on the Interstate.  Then it struck me how fortunate we were, and how much worse it could have been. I started to cry.  Thank you Jesus.


Failure is one of the words in my lapsed Lenten discipline.  It is also I. There are currently 22 words I have not addressed.  I’ve read them, daily, as they are sitting on my desk in plain view.  I meditate on them and think about memories or thoughts each one evokes.  Some, like number two, Something Purple, washes over me like a waterfall – Lent colors, my chasuble, my favorite jumper, a cherished silk blouse long gone, royalty, a rainbow ribbon.  Failure.  Me.  While I can ponder those words, something deep within my soul keeps me from attacking my keyboard each day and jotting down a few words about a word.  I wonder if Jesus ever got up in the morning and said, “I’d love to go talk to a few people on the corner about love, but man I’m really just not that into it today.”  Maybe one day Mary said about 11 am, “I just don’t have the energy to bake any bread today.  We’ll just have some wine with our stew and be done with it.” I know that Moses didn’t feel much like doing a face-to-face with Pharoah.

So, I accept that I am a Lenten Discipline Failure.  But, maybe only halfway.  I mean, after all, I DO read them. Daily. I DO ponder them, daily. I just don’t write about them daily.  Probably never will.  I’m sorry Jesus, and thanks for forgiving me.

Here then are those 22 words, plus the last 4 for you to ponder:

  1. Loss
  2. Something purple
  3. Success
  4. Bread & Wine
  5. Fasting
  6. Fire
  7. A Verse
  8. Heart
  9. Bible
  10. Joy
  11. A stranger
  12. Ruin
  13. Healing
  14. An idea
  15. Journey
  16. Water
  17. Failure
  18. Longing
  19. Community
  20. A book
  21. An old treasure
  22. Darkness
  23. Cold
  24. Remoteness
  25. Favorite prayer
  26. Jesus.

Warmth & Nature

Here I go again, slipping behind in my Lenten discipline of writing on one word each day.  Sigh.  It makes me aware of my human failings, even when I have vowed to be diligent.  I suppose we all find ourselves in this position from time to time. Yesterday and today’s words are warmth and nature.  Another two words I find couple together nicely.  Whenever I encounter the word “nature,” I immediately think of Mother Nature.  It is always a puzzlement to me why we call God Father, but Nature, Mother, but we do.  Neither is actually a gender.  God for me is Spirit. God for theologian Pannenberg was a “force field.”  I can accept that.  Nature, for me is our entire universe, and the Hubble Telescope photos are awesome evidence of its enormity, infinity even.  It is the birds, who I call my little dinosaurs and feed every winter.  It is the animals, including my beloved Maltese, Loki.  It is sun, moon, sky, oceans, earth, flora, fauna; it is all of creation. I suppose I could do without mosquitoes or the house fly. I love the nature in my life, particularly when it is warm and I can enjoy it fully outside of my home. I think too of Mother Nature as a Spirit of warmth and nurturing.  Okay, most of the time.  Mother Nature can be violent during tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, blizzards, all the horrors of nature.  But, on a quiet, warm sunny day, Nature and I get along just fine.  Nature is God’s creation. Nature is God’s own, just as I am. I like that.

“But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this?  In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.” Job 12:7-10


When I was seven, and a southern Baptist, the ministers always talked about having a personal friendship, or relationship, with Jesus.  That puzzled my young mind since I simply didn’t grasp how one could be a friend with a dead person.  And then I learned about resurrection, our soul, and a plethora of spiritual entities from the mystics to the myriad of saints.  In my adult life I even experienced many spiritual interactions with what I like to call the “Spiritual realm.”  Finally, as I studied the scriptures, attended seminary, studied many scholarly works on Jesus, I too developed a personal friendship with Jesus.  Obviously it wasn’t a face-to-face, I can reach out and touch Jesus friendship, but a deeply spiritual friendship nonetheless.  We take walks together, we have chats, I pray with Jesus, and in my mere human weakness, I even ask Jesus to let my NY Giants win the Super Bowl (they did). What a guy that Jesus.

One of my favorite early hymns is “What a friend we have in Jesus.”  It was the first hymn I learned to play on the piano, and to this day I can at least sing from memory the first verse.  Over the years I have learned our friends can be near or far away yet our bond of love keeps us connected; often frequently; often rarely. It is like that with Jesus and me.  Our love for each other keeps us connected. Thanks be to God.

A friend loves at all times.  Proverbs 17:17