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Dept. of Goodbye
Wednesday, 15 March 2023 04:36 pm
Dept. of Friday
Friday, 10 March 2023 08:26 pmWe're Almost at the Weekend
... and I am deciding between a very traditional gin martini with a lemon twist, and a jalapeno-garlic stuffed olive, or a an empire - gin, sake, a salt plum (and possibly a lemon twist there, too).
Whichever I choose, it will accompany some anime, a husband who will hug me when I need it, and as much relaxation from kitty-based stress as possible.
That last is because, having made the decision about Teddy, based on his increasing weakness and our knowledge of his very probable cancer, we haven't been able to get a hospice vet from the group who helped us with Alex, Phillip and Opie to come in before the 28th. We're on a wait list, and they gave us a couple of hospice vets that they're comfortable suggesting, but the alternate vet hasn't responded to us, and Teddy is getting weaker and weaker. I don't want to have that for him.
So yeah, it really doesn't matter which type of martini or which anime I watch ... I'll end up needing Bob's hugs more than either of those.
Sigh.
... and I am deciding between a very traditional gin martini with a lemon twist, and a jalapeno-garlic stuffed olive, or a an empire - gin, sake, a salt plum (and possibly a lemon twist there, too).
Whichever I choose, it will accompany some anime, a husband who will hug me when I need it, and as much relaxation from kitty-based stress as possible.
That last is because, having made the decision about Teddy, based on his increasing weakness and our knowledge of his very probable cancer, we haven't been able to get a hospice vet from the group who helped us with Alex, Phillip and Opie to come in before the 28th. We're on a wait list, and they gave us a couple of hospice vets that they're comfortable suggesting, but the alternate vet hasn't responded to us, and Teddy is getting weaker and weaker. I don't want to have that for him.
So yeah, it really doesn't matter which type of martini or which anime I watch ... I'll end up needing Bob's hugs more than either of those.
Sigh.
Dept. of Horror
Monday, 4 July 2022 01:03 pmIndependence From What, Exactly?
I'm sorry.
I was going to write something different on this Independence Day. I'd even started. the process. It wasn't the type of optimistic commentary I used to post about this country. But it did have something of hope in it. Here's how far I got:
Some people say our country has changed fundamentally in the last seven years, especially with the Supreme Court’s recent theocratic and authoritarian rulings. However, I think it more accurate to say veils that once hid our country's fundamental flaws from those of us at or near the top of society are being torn mercilessly away, forcing us to recognize the fact that our country was built with violence toward those at or near the bottom.
It doesn't mean I love our country less; it means that the love I bear forces me to see the flaws, and challenges me to fight them, to change them, to erase them. That will take more than individual effort; it will take a community, a nationwide chain of communities, and the effort will be long, hard, and often heartbreaking. But it will be worth it.
How can I say that now?
A Fourth of July parade in Highland Park, a wealthy northern suburb of Chicago.
Six dead so far, 31 injured and taken to two hospitals (24 in one, the rest to another; most of the injuries gunshot wounds.) Chaos (TW for smartphone pics taken by bystanders; no blood posted on Twitter.)
One shaky description of the shooter. Small build, white, longer black hair, tee-shirt, 18-20 years of age. An apparently young guy still on the loose.
I've listened to a doctor who was on the scene with his family, saying that while he'd never served in the military, he'd served in ERs where he's cared for horrific injuries. What he saw in the first people he reached, he said, were "horrific, massive injuries."
Reports of young kids lost, separated from their parents or caregivers. Abandoned bicycles and cars decorated in red white and blue bunting. Abandoned chairs people had been sitting in to watch the parade.
Rifle? Rifles? AK-15, or similar semi-automatic weapon?
That I can say "Hey, at least it's not as bad as Buffalo; it's definitely not Uvalde" is unbelievably, indescribably horrible.
Happy Independence Day, America.
I'm sorry.
I was going to write something different on this Independence Day. I'd even started. the process. It wasn't the type of optimistic commentary I used to post about this country. But it did have something of hope in it. Here's how far I got:
Some people say our country has changed fundamentally in the last seven years, especially with the Supreme Court’s recent theocratic and authoritarian rulings. However, I think it more accurate to say veils that once hid our country's fundamental flaws from those of us at or near the top of society are being torn mercilessly away, forcing us to recognize the fact that our country was built with violence toward those at or near the bottom.
It doesn't mean I love our country less; it means that the love I bear forces me to see the flaws, and challenges me to fight them, to change them, to erase them. That will take more than individual effort; it will take a community, a nationwide chain of communities, and the effort will be long, hard, and often heartbreaking. But it will be worth it.
How can I say that now?
A Fourth of July parade in Highland Park, a wealthy northern suburb of Chicago.
Six dead so far, 31 injured and taken to two hospitals (24 in one, the rest to another; most of the injuries gunshot wounds.) Chaos (TW for smartphone pics taken by bystanders; no blood posted on Twitter.)
One shaky description of the shooter. Small build, white, longer black hair, tee-shirt, 18-20 years of age. An apparently young guy still on the loose.
I've listened to a doctor who was on the scene with his family, saying that while he'd never served in the military, he'd served in ERs where he's cared for horrific injuries. What he saw in the first people he reached, he said, were "horrific, massive injuries."
Reports of young kids lost, separated from their parents or caregivers. Abandoned bicycles and cars decorated in red white and blue bunting. Abandoned chairs people had been sitting in to watch the parade.
Rifle? Rifles? AK-15, or similar semi-automatic weapon?
That I can say "Hey, at least it's not as bad as Buffalo; it's definitely not Uvalde" is unbelievably, indescribably horrible.
Happy Independence Day, America.
Dept. of Canada
Thursday, 1 July 2021 05:32 pmA Sorrowful Canada Day
As a Canadian expat in Chicago, one who long ago committed to living in the U.S., I used to write heartfelt paeans to my adopted country every July 4. I haven't done that over the last few years, or at least my paeans have been a lot less heartfelt. It's hard to write them once you realize how deep the fault lines in the American House run.
I used to love writing heartfelt paeans to my birth country as well, and that lasted much longer than my July 4 enjoyments. Canada, after all, did not have those kinds of fault lines.
Until it did.
Or rather, until Canada and Canadians were forced to reckon with Canadian fault lines. With dead and disappeared Indigenous women and girls. With killers gone unpunished or even uncharged despite the bodies of Indigenous men, women, and youths. With hundreds of unmarked graves, harboring tiny skeletons all of which bear silent witnesses to government-sponsored or abetted racism and cruelty. With other racist and xenophobic violence giving the lie to our national superiority complex.
And here it is, July 1 again, the official 154th birthday of the country as it's generally understood by those of us with a shit-tonne of privilege..
I can't help loving my birth country. And yes, it has some wonderful national attributes to pair with its stunning geography.
But it's hard. I hope it doesn't get any harder.
As a Canadian expat in Chicago, one who long ago committed to living in the U.S., I used to write heartfelt paeans to my adopted country every July 4. I haven't done that over the last few years, or at least my paeans have been a lot less heartfelt. It's hard to write them once you realize how deep the fault lines in the American House run.
I used to love writing heartfelt paeans to my birth country as well, and that lasted much longer than my July 4 enjoyments. Canada, after all, did not have those kinds of fault lines.
Until it did.
Or rather, until Canada and Canadians were forced to reckon with Canadian fault lines. With dead and disappeared Indigenous women and girls. With killers gone unpunished or even uncharged despite the bodies of Indigenous men, women, and youths. With hundreds of unmarked graves, harboring tiny skeletons all of which bear silent witnesses to government-sponsored or abetted racism and cruelty. With other racist and xenophobic violence giving the lie to our national superiority complex.
And here it is, July 1 again, the official 154th birthday of the country as it's generally understood by those of us with a shit-tonne of privilege..
I can't help loving my birth country. And yes, it has some wonderful national attributes to pair with its stunning geography.
But it's hard. I hope it doesn't get any harder.
(no subject)
Sunday, 9 February 2020 06:15 pmTime Is Too Much With Us
I just found myself in tears as I listened to an album, one I first listened to in 1975, in Charlottetown, PEI, as a freshly minted reporter at the fine old age of 19-going-on-20. I listened to it with Janet Sears, one of my newsroom colleagues, and one of my closest friends at the time. She was a sweet-faced, wryly funny woman of character, toughness and complete goodness. We were dealing with heartbreak, but we were dealing with it together, and she helped me with her laughter. I hope I helped her, as well. She died of ovarian/cervical in the late 1990s, and I miss her.
I didn't mean to cry. But yesterday, my brother called me and told me that Joei Stevens, my first boyfriend, my first love, the boy whose virginity I took (and he mine), died last week.
I saw him again, a few years ago, and it wasn't a bad conversation. He'd been a theater major when we met - my mother worried about the fact that I was 16 and he 21, but she had him over for dinner, and decided he was a good boy.
He was.
The world was a little too much for him; he was an anomaly in his farming/fishing family. They loved him, but didn't understand him. He ended up becoming a librarian, and I think he liked that a great deal, but I think he might have faintly regretted, or more than faintly regretted, not having stayed in his theater world. He never, as far as I know, had another serious relationship after me. He lived alone. I am glad to hear from Mac that he had friends who visited him for the very short time he was in hospital (something like a day).
But he's gone, too.
And last week, I learned about Maggie.
I know it's what happens at my age.
But listening to that album unexpectedly kicked me in the teeth.
I just found myself in tears as I listened to an album, one I first listened to in 1975, in Charlottetown, PEI, as a freshly minted reporter at the fine old age of 19-going-on-20. I listened to it with Janet Sears, one of my newsroom colleagues, and one of my closest friends at the time. She was a sweet-faced, wryly funny woman of character, toughness and complete goodness. We were dealing with heartbreak, but we were dealing with it together, and she helped me with her laughter. I hope I helped her, as well. She died of ovarian/cervical in the late 1990s, and I miss her.
I didn't mean to cry. But yesterday, my brother called me and told me that Joei Stevens, my first boyfriend, my first love, the boy whose virginity I took (and he mine), died last week.
I saw him again, a few years ago, and it wasn't a bad conversation. He'd been a theater major when we met - my mother worried about the fact that I was 16 and he 21, but she had him over for dinner, and decided he was a good boy.
He was.
The world was a little too much for him; he was an anomaly in his farming/fishing family. They loved him, but didn't understand him. He ended up becoming a librarian, and I think he liked that a great deal, but I think he might have faintly regretted, or more than faintly regretted, not having stayed in his theater world. He never, as far as I know, had another serious relationship after me. He lived alone. I am glad to hear from Mac that he had friends who visited him for the very short time he was in hospital (something like a day).
But he's gone, too.
And last week, I learned about Maggie.
I know it's what happens at my age.
But listening to that album unexpectedly kicked me in the teeth.
Dept. of Some Days the Bear Bites You
Friday, 31 January 2020 05:08 pmSo Today ...
- Brexit took place.
- The U.S. Senate voted - narrowly, and with two GOP Senators voting against it - to hide their eyes and not hear from witnesses.
- And I discovered purely by accident, that an old friend, with whom I'd kept in touch only by Christmas and holiday cards, died last July. Folks, don't let friendships become once a year things.
Department of Whipsawed Emotions
Wednesday, 11 April 2018 05:26 pmBoo-Yah!
Tonight, when I go to my monthly union local meeting, I fully expect my emotions to be, as the subject line says, whipsawed.
Still mourning Jerry. Many of us at the meeting will mourn him as well. But we're also celebrating this news (it's been a long time coming), and I know Jerry would be so incredibly happy to hear this news. I'm hoping he's looking down (or up, or sideways, or from That Other Dimension of Perfect Justice) and cheering. God knows, he helped get us here.
So on his behalf?
BOO-YAH!
(Yes, the union election has yet to take place, but our remarkable organizers wouldn't have announced it, wouldn't have gone public with the news — or the very sophisticated pro-union Trib newsroom employee website — if we didn't have a fairly strong expectation that we'll win this one. I'm knocking wood as I say that, of course.)
Still ...
BOO-YAH!
Tonight, when I go to my monthly union local meeting, I fully expect my emotions to be, as the subject line says, whipsawed.
Still mourning Jerry. Many of us at the meeting will mourn him as well. But we're also celebrating this news (it's been a long time coming), and I know Jerry would be so incredibly happy to hear this news. I'm hoping he's looking down (or up, or sideways, or from That Other Dimension of Perfect Justice) and cheering. God knows, he helped get us here.
So on his behalf?
BOO-YAH!
(Yes, the union election has yet to take place, but our remarkable organizers wouldn't have announced it, wouldn't have gone public with the news — or the very sophisticated pro-union Trib newsroom employee website — if we didn't have a fairly strong expectation that we'll win this one. I'm knocking wood as I say that, of course.)
Still ...
BOO-YAH!
Dept. of Goodbye
Monday, 9 April 2018 08:13 pmJerry Minkkinen
One of my oldest and dearest union colleagues, Jerry Minkkinen, died Friday. I am still trying to come to grips with the news.
He was the first Newspaper Guild official I met when I was hired by Pioneer Press in 1983. He didn't introduce me to unionism; I'd been a union officer at my previous newspaper job, and I already believed in the union movement. But he taught me so much about how to make day to day unions work for their members - for us - that it's a debt I could never repay.
Jerry combined a street fighter's instincts, with the seductive charm of a troubadour - he could hold a room in thrall, something I experienced many times - and the formula worked for us far more often than not, whether it was sitting at the table with successive waves of increasingly nasty managements, fighting grievances on behalf of individuals or the union as a whole, or giving us tips on how to fight for ourselves. He did this not just for my section of the union but for every Guild covered unit in the Chicago area. That's a lot of work for one person.
More than that, though, he was a good man, who gave his all to the union. He sacrificed health and family through much of his career, in order to help us. I am glad to know that in the last few years, he had much joy of his family.
He laughed often, was kind, was both fierce and gentle, and I am honored that we were colleagues and friends. There is so much more that I could tell you about him, but it all jumbles up in a tremendous Jerry-sized pile of stories. None of them will make up for the Jerry-sized hole his passing has left.
I could only find one picture of him, but it's a fitting one; he was holding a union stewards' workshop. And here is a much, much better remembrance of him. ( Jerry Minkkinen )
One of my oldest and dearest union colleagues, Jerry Minkkinen, died Friday. I am still trying to come to grips with the news.
He was the first Newspaper Guild official I met when I was hired by Pioneer Press in 1983. He didn't introduce me to unionism; I'd been a union officer at my previous newspaper job, and I already believed in the union movement. But he taught me so much about how to make day to day unions work for their members - for us - that it's a debt I could never repay.
Jerry combined a street fighter's instincts, with the seductive charm of a troubadour - he could hold a room in thrall, something I experienced many times - and the formula worked for us far more often than not, whether it was sitting at the table with successive waves of increasingly nasty managements, fighting grievances on behalf of individuals or the union as a whole, or giving us tips on how to fight for ourselves. He did this not just for my section of the union but for every Guild covered unit in the Chicago area. That's a lot of work for one person.
More than that, though, he was a good man, who gave his all to the union. He sacrificed health and family through much of his career, in order to help us. I am glad to know that in the last few years, he had much joy of his family.
He laughed often, was kind, was both fierce and gentle, and I am honored that we were colleagues and friends. There is so much more that I could tell you about him, but it all jumbles up in a tremendous Jerry-sized pile of stories. None of them will make up for the Jerry-sized hole his passing has left.
I could only find one picture of him, but it's a fitting one; he was holding a union stewards' workshop. And here is a much, much better remembrance of him. ( Jerry Minkkinen )
