Fruit flies, traps, burials, and kindness

Y’all, little makes me frantic like gnats and zealous fruit flies. They are so pesty and aggressive and present when they’re present. Every time I see, feel, or sense one of those bastards near me, I go into a hand-flailing tizzy. Just an hour ago, I slammed my hand down on the kitchen counter to attempt to vanquish a f.f. (drosophila melanogaster; Ms. Reon, my high school biology teacher would be enormously proud that I have never forgotten the scientific name of the humble f.f.), missed—because they’re quick AF—and now have a bruise under my index finger because apparently in middle age, your vessels just aren’t as robust as they once were. Add them to the freaking list.

Tom is obsessed with our 3D printer and recently constructed a phenomenal f.f. trap: you print the top, it screws onto a mason jar that you’ve filled with a bit of apple cider vinegar, and voila, you soon have a morgue. He could sell these things, but he is sharing for free on thingiverse because he is a good person who wants others to be as rapidly f.f.-free as we want to be. The point of that aside is that he brought a trap to our WV home, and I am here because I had to bury a cat—more on that in a sec—and “someone” did not take the garbage out last time that person was here, and now we have an infestation. The trap is now established, and I hope to have a total morgue by tomorrow morning.

As you all may recall, at our peak in WV, we had three adopted barn cats and four purchased goats who soon became eight goats because pregnancy. Then one goat, Lefty (had listeria, only turned in left circles, screamed a lot in a friendly goat way, soft AF), died; this was awful but not unexpected, and by the time we arrived, the vultures had done such a magnificent bang-up job that Lefty was maybe a pelt and a skull. We buried her, still rather miss her eccentricities, but accepted this as the circle of life. Seven goats remain.

Then Ruby, our most diminutive sweet girl (cat) died, and that was also very sad and it was unexpected. And then we settled into not-death for a while which, on a farm, is somewhat remarkable. And then our darling Spot, our favorite barn cat, just started to look poor. Spot, as you may recall, took on a raccoon two years ago, and while I’m not sure he won, he most definitely didn’t lose. He was shaped like a trapezoid, very dense; Oliver and I could never figure out how or why he was thus. Since we bought this place and adopted the cats and then took on the goats, we have had a caretaker come every day to feed them all. But he comes once. So the cats eat once (plus their vat of dry kibble), and Ruby and Jinx (third barn cat) were always extremely svelte as you would expect, not least because in their advanced teen years they totally gave up mousing. And yet Spot was an absolute unit. And he loved to be held like a baby. He was the best sort of cat: independent as fuck, not remotely needy, but if you held him like a baby and scratched him? Forget it. Butter. Purring. Love forever. He was all of our favorite, and then he looked so poor. And I took him to the vet and found out that he had arthritis (not surprising; he was 15), and feline AIDS (surprising I guess; dormant we thought?). Nothing we could do. And then a month later, this Monday, he just called it quits, and I was and remain so truly sad. So I had our caretaker put him lovingly (and in a bag) in the freezer until I could get here, and today I came up and dug a grave in his (Spot’s, not the caretaker’s) favorite sunny spot, and wrapped him in a favorite blanket with some favorite treats, and I hope he rests easily. One cat remains.

Tomorrow I am going to plant some flowers around the grave. They’ll probably die because about 90% of all I have planted out here in this effing rocky barren wasteland has died, but whadya have without hope? And Spot was such a good boy and I know he appreciated the beauty here and the flowers and birdsong and peace. I worry for Jinx, 19 years old!, but he really cannot hear so maybe that’s helpful? He and I have been hanging out today and he also cannot really groom himself anymore so I picked burrs and matted bits and so forth, and I hope he is not too lonely, but he probably is and that kills me a bit.

I filled the bird feeders, and it’s just astonishing how quickly the feathered friends return. It’s a rave out there right now: multiple types of woodpeckers, nuthatches, titmice, and so forth. Just flitting and flapping, calling and territorializing even though there are at least 12 distinct places to eat from across two feeders and a giant suet cage. Meanwhile, I cleaned my Emily-made pond because the duckweed has done what it does best and multiplied like the f.f.s in my garbage can, and lo! Frogs have inhabited the watering hole, and I was chuffed. Their heads were popping through the surface and back down, and some others were scampering in the bushes, and I just think that if people could all just focus a touch more on the teeming micro worlds around each of us and be kind, maybe that would ripple outwards? We need something, y’all! Things are looking poor. Just like Spot. And look what happened to him!

I started this blog when Oliver was very little. He is now applying to college—my heart!—and where I once wrote daily, I now maybe write 2-3 times a year. My heart and sense of self feel a bit less expansive now, a bit more intentionally protectionist. I see other parents behaving in appallingly ugly fashion, and I think, your babies are leaving soon! What are you modeling for them with your competitiveness? I see kids behaving in mean, shitty fashion too, and while I understand that growing up is hard, I just want to scream: please, please just take a minute and breathe and be kind. Just think about how you want to be treated, what you want to get back from the world, and be kind. To your fellow people or even, equally, especially, a cat or a frog or a bird.

I have changed so much in the past fifteen years. Some has been the necessary pivots you simply must make when life throws you the shit it does. Repeatedly. You pivot or you crumble, really. I am still learning. I am as worried as the next person about the future of our world. Will our kids have jobs? Healthcare? A planet that is alive? But what will always be available is a generosity of spirit. Of kindness. Of gratitude. The value of those things is infinite; without them the world feels mean. And is becoming more so all the time.

In honor of Spot, may I ask that anyone who reads this say or do one nice thing this weekend? Pay a stranger a compliment. Help someone. Take a shelter dog for an afternoon out. Put out a bowl of water and some nuts for wild things in your midst. Go outside and listen and breathe. I wish for all of you the absence of f.f.s!

6 October 2020: 27 days, Mom and Dad, the gray area

It feels as if we’ve all lived another year since RBG died, which was, in fact, just a few weeks ago. Since then, we have learned, conclusively, that the “president avoided paying federal income tax in 10 of the 15 years preceding his election. In 2016, he paid $750 in federal income tax, less than one night’s stay in a suite at the Trump International Hotel in Washington, D.C.” And yet he also received a $72+ million refund.

We watched, not ten days after RBG died, as the GOP, too many of whom are classless power-grabbers, printed “Notorious ACB” shirts as if Handmaiden Amy Coney Barrett could possibly, in any way, deserve that moniker.

We watched as her nomination party turned into the grotesque superspreader spectacle it was in that person after person has since tested positive for COVID-19, including trump, melania, kellyanne, kayleigh, stephen, thom, mike, and ron, paragons of honesty and class every one.

We watched as the US reached the 215,000+ dead mark but trump flew Marine One back to the White House after just three days at Walter Reed Hospital on our dime, and in care of an osteopath who sounds like a complete and scripted fool, to demean every death and every struggle by saying that Covid is just not that bad. Man up, and you’ll be fine. The dismissive cruelty and privilege in that is stunning.

Meanwhile, I returned south to help my parents with more of their move, to celebrate my dad’s 70th, to try and keep some ship steady somewhere. Masked up, staying distant, hugging few, and feeling so far away from normal, I realized it has been more than 30 weeks since life changed so dramatically yet again. For the most part, the rest of the world is moving on, but here? Americans are all at home, those of us following the rules at the shitty mercy of idiot anti-maskers, disinformation, and, above all, the deranged man-child who will kill us all in his single-minded, selfish quest for power.

Our children are lonely, their educations at best a fraction of what they should be. We are all stressed to the nines in the best of circumstances; those facing illness, eviction, joblessness, hunger, and those in need and deserving of all form of insurance and support are in crisis mode. And, winter is coming.

The years since the 2016 election have felt like an eternity. A daily slog of exhaustion and stress and ugliness. It is taking a toll. The gray areas of nuance seem to be slipping into the far reaches of sparring corners. I see it on our neighborhood listserv as people yell back and forth in fairly anonymous screeds about leaf blowers, safety cameras, and the like. I see it in southerners who boast about their communal spirit and who do go above and beyond to help those who look like they do but then rage in blanket, dismissive disgust about all who don’t. I see it in parent communities all.the.time. In those who feel competitive and in those who don’t, in those who grasp for a majority of the pie while stepping on others as they reach greedily forward. I feel it in myself and my anger and lack of reserve.

I know that none of this is new, but shit. Can’t we just take responsibility, appreciate fact, be kind, and go forth? Can we stop lying, cheating, and throwing others under the bus?

Tom and I just rewatched the Chernobyl series. If you haven’t yet seen it, I can not recommend it more. Tough? Yes. Important? Crucial.

“Every lie we tell incurs a debt to the truth. Sooner or later, that debt is paid…What is the cost of lies? It’s not that we will mistake them for the truth. The real danger is that, if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognize the truth at all. What can we do then? What else is left but to abandon even the hope of truth and content ourselves instead with stories? In these stories, it doesn’t matter who the heroes are. All we want to know is who is to blame.”

27 days. Vote!

World Central Kitchen and generosity; the flip of ugliness

The pace of a busy commercial kitchen is thrilling. Add to it a shared sense of purpose, compassion, generosity, and smiles, and you’ve got José Andrés’ World Central Kitchen pop-up on Pennsylvania Avenue, here in DC. I arrived just before 8am yesterday morning, donned a WCK hat, and was put to work stripping mint leaves from stems in the rear of the kitchen. Chef Elsa, a volunteer from Lake Tahoe who was overseeing the dip, sauce, and sandwich station where I worked, was all smiles and all business. The requisite black chef pants, a few tattoos, a knit cap. I loved her completely and immediately.

Other volunteers arrived as eager to work as I was, and we quickly slipped into a rhythm. Amanda must have sliced 2,000 fresh rolls, Kay plucked anything brown from fresh lettuce leaves before laying them in orderly fashion on sheet pans, Kristin diced tomatoes and added them to the tzatziki. I delivered the enormous mountain of mint to the guy making aioli with an industrial-sized immersion blender, stirred four vats of the tzatziki with a paddle so large you could have rowed a boat with it, and then moved into sandwich prep. We were in and out of the walk-in. Someone brought around homemade cinnamon rolls.

By 10:45, we heard a line had formed out front. The doors opened at 11, and we were off to the races. At one point, Elsa moved me up to the front line to bag warm steak sandwiches as quickly as the meat guy could get steak from the grill and lay it generously atop the aioli, lettuce, and tomato-prepped rolls we’d just made in the back. Kay squeezed them shut, I took them firmly and gingerly nestled them in the bag.

“Sandwiches, sandwiches! We need more sandwiches!”

We struggled to keep up. Next to me, Hillary scooped steaming quinoa into boxes and drizzled it with meyer lemon sauce before letting the falafel guy add to it.

“Fire soup, fire soup!”

Everyone was smiling, thankful -to give and receive- and so very kind. Many of the volunteers were furloughed workers themselves; Hillary hasn’t been at work or paid since before Christmas. A single mother of three asked if she could have extra food for her children. Of course.

the line out front of WCK; it went around the block.

It was cold outside, and the line snaked around the block (see above photo). One incredible DCer, set to retire next week, brought $640 (what she had in her wallet + what she could withdraw from the ATM) to the line and started handing out $20s. Many people just asked for a hug. She said, ““These are people that I owe a debt to because they’re doing a job on my behalf and they’re not being paid…At the core of it I’m a human being and I live here. I know how hard it is to get back up the economic ladder. We’re pushing people out of their economic social status as we speak. And it’s not going to take a week or two for them to recover.”

WCK served 4,400 meals on Wednesday, 5,568 or something on Thursday, and I later found that we did more than 6,400. I’m sure today was no different. Chef Andrés has just announced that #ChefsForFeds will be expanding across the nation to help feed our citizens until the shutdown is over. If you can donate or want to help, visit https://www.worldcentralkitchen.org/

Yesterday in DC was also the March for Life. During it, in my opinion, we saw some of the ugliest and most exclusivist of humanity. Concurrently, the Indigenous People’s March peacefully protested environmental degradation, genocide, and violence against Native women. My heart was wrecked and my fury was orbital to find teenage boys, led by fellow student Nick Sandmann, from Covington Catholic school in Kentucky mob and ridicule a Native elder (himself a Vietnam vet who  holds a regular ceremony for Native American veterans at Arlington National Cemetery ). The boys, March for Life participants, were wearing red Make America Great Hats, in case you haven’t seen their heinous behavior (video in the attached link), grinning with such ugly, evil, disdain and cheering each other on that I actually feel sick each time I see the footage. Here is Nathan Philips’, the elder, response.

It also emerged today that a recent Covington Catholic grad this past weekend held a woman down, choked and ignored her pleas to stop, and raped her until she bled. He has been charged with one count of rape and two counts of sodomy. This was not his first sexual assault offense.

I struggle to hope for the future if kids like these are part of the youth coming up. They are disgusting bigots, examples of toxic masculinity and entitlement, the worst sort of smug “Christians” who fancy themselves Christ-like but are everything but. Think Brett Kavanaugh! Who must their parents be? Why didn’t the school chaperones, who were at the March too, do something? Should you wish to reach out to Covington Catholic School, its phone number is 859-491-2247. Its address is 1600 Dixie Highway, Park Hills, KY, 41011. The principal’s email is browe@covcath.org, and the superintendent of the district, who was a trip chaperone, is Mike Clines. On Twitter he is @supmikeclines.

I will try to focus on people like Chef Andrés, on the volunteers who came from all over to help, on the woman who handed out $20s and hugs, on all the Facebook friends -some of whom I’ve never even met IRL- who donated to World Central Kitchen since I shared my experience there yesterday. I will hope that there are more fine young people than awful, cruel ones. I will celebrate the good in the world, including all the amazing people who marched today, and hope that we can vanquish trump and his grotesque divisiveness and craven mean-spiritedness before our democracy crumbles. It’s hard to stay hopeful sometimes.