I am so tired of politics

It was close to eleven, when he came into the room. I had gone to bed early, trying to avoid the repetitive media coverage, the on-air pundits yammering away. I roused when he turned on his bedside light.
     “Did he win?” I murmured.
     “Yeah, it wasn’t even close.” He began undressing.
     “Ugh.” I pulled the covers over my face, pondering the news coverage and social media trolling that would come. “Wake me up in four years.”
     “I just don’t understand how stupid people can be—” He began to rant. I grabbed a pillow and hit him over the head.

Inspired by Nick’s Son? Photo by Roy Schulze.

Nick’s son?

To get some idea of how much a seven-year-old cares about politics, I think back to 1968 when I—having recently moved to the States—confidently told one of my new friends that Canada’s Prime Minister had the very same name as his President. John-son and Pear-son, after all, were close enough to make no difference, and—although still in the thrall of expo67—I’d clearly missed the whole Trudeamania thing.
     Then, as if to make things worse, I voted for Nixon in our pretend class election . . . though not nearly as worse as the one kid who voted for Wallace.

Inspired by Vote for Peanut. Images from Getty by way of New York magazine.

Vote for Peanut

My political career began and ended in Grade Four with a bid for class president. My contenders were Suzanne—the monied vote; Suzy—the affable Donny Osmond fangirl; and Anne. Precociously large and favouring yellow pantsuits, Anne was a fellow trailer park kid. While Suzanne and Suzy huckstered, Anne and I forged a pact to vote for one another.
     Suzanne was a 14-vote landslide, Suzy got 7, Anne had 2. And me? Nada!
     “We were supposed to vote for each other!!” I shrieked as she walked away . . . her gargantuan head two dissembling ponytails separated by a pale line of mendacity.

Inspired by Trickle-Down Comeuppance. Image by Roy Schulze.

Trickle-Down Comeuppance

Poor Liz Truss
Begat a fuss
So certain, she
In ideology
She went all-in for the pedigreed
To pay for it— “Well, there’s no need,
Trickle-down will work!”
Hmmph. Indeed.
From get-go, it appeared demented
Her program’s dead now, unlamented
And with tight smile and lame excuse
Poor Liz endures the House abuse.

But soon that cabal of Brexiteers,
Those liars, inbred toffs and peers
Will move to cut their political loss
By offering up another boss
And Charles as King will host to tea
another inept mediocrity.

Pound down, rates up, prices surging—
Starmer's smiling, so too is Sturgeon.

Image by James Ferguson. This drabble was written October 18th, which made it rather prophetic; it was alas “overtaken by events” by publication day.

Doug when I first met him

I arrived a little early for the job interview. He bounded down the stairs to meet me at reception. He had a Woodward and Bernstein vibe. Not too tall. Slim. Pencil behind his ear. Carrot-coloured wavy hair. Red beard. Wide glasses. A firm handshake. There was something in his brown eyes that spoke of an openness, a willingness to see the best in the world, to believe everyone he encountered was a potential friend. I don’t possess that quality, but I recognized its worth immediately. I smiled. He smiled back. I got the job. We celebrated his 63rd birthday yesterday.

Inspired by Close Enough to Spanish.

Close Enough to Spanish

Heading home, one of the guys from the construction crew offered me twenty bucks for my English-to-Spanish phrasebook, specifically because he wanted to write a letter in Spanish to let down the girl he’d picked up in Buenos Aires the Friday before.
     Lucky for them, Italian is close enough to Spanish that he and his pals had had no problem finding dates that weekend, including this particular law student with whom he’d stayed until Sunday afternoon.
     I had to wonder how much she could possibly have cared about their weekend fling.
     Still, he cared enough to be worried she might.

Inspired by Fate and Luck. Photo and fridge-magnet from the author’s collection.

Fate and Luck

September’s storms reminded me of my own month of tropical traumas, in 1999—a year I basically lived in a boardroom or on a plane. First, I was stranded in Sint Maarten for a week when Hurricane Lenny slammed the Antilles, settling over us for two days and dumping 700 mm of rain. Ten days later, I flew Curacao to Costa Rica via San Juan; my suitcase didn’t make it. I spent a week in negotiations in San José in the same suit and shirt. A comical interlude, because two weeks later I got kidnapped in Venezuela. My luck held.

Image of Hurricane Lenny over the Caribbean from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, with data superimposed by CooperScience.

Her Only Family Portrait

“My father’s holding his breath so he doesn’t give it to me,” says Mom, pointing to an old photo. I'm sitting in her dining room, where family pictures, decked out in a mishmash of dollar-store frames, adorn the walls.
     Was Mom told this by her mother Alma—here in that same picture holding Mom as a baby? Yes, he has his mouth closed, but he doesn’t look like he’s dying of tuberculosis. Though why else would they spend all that money at the photographer’s?
     “He was very ill,” she says, gently touching the face of the father she doesn’t remember.

Inspired by 100 Words for Stephen.

100 Words for Stephen

Yesterday we said goodbye to another wonderful human. I listened to the eulogy, engaged in trying to subtle-cry, my tears indulgent and my sorrow insignificant and showy compared to that of his young family. But here’s a short list of who he was; a marvellous combination that made up this precious man:

Husband — Father — Friend
Neighbour — Artist — Wit
Musician — Animal guy
Raconteur — Reader
Designer of dog rescue logos and banners
Painter — Stick-thrower — Child-schlepper
My kid’s employer — Energy-giver
Confidence booster
Volunteer — Scooter wrangler
Porch sitter — Naturalist — Pundit
Best “my boy as one of the lost capybaras” Hallowe’en costume-maker
Humble
Important
  · · ·
Missed

Inspired by Traumatic Times. The image is an unfinished sketch of Nim and Holly by Stephen Dutcheshe.

Traumatic Times

I will remember the Queen as gracious and dutiful, a reassuring symbol of honour and stability. She was a link with the past, but wisely adaptable too.
     Now, her subjects mourn. As global media speculate about her funeral and the royal succession, thousands gather to pay their respects.

Meanwhile, one-third of Pakistan lies under water. Thirty-three million people are affected, 1.7 million homes are damaged, and hundreds of thousands squat in improvised refugee camps while their crops rot.
     The rumble of a caisson is drowning out their cries.

All countries need their touchstones. Today, though, Pakistan needs a life-raft more.

Inspired by the week’s headlines. Images by Loïc Venance and Fayaz Aziz. Both the Red Cross and Global Medic are collecting for relief efforts in Pakistan.

You may not remember me…

I finally got to talking with one of the other fathers waiting in the schoolyard, and it turned out we’d both attended the same school. We talked about the things we remembered, the teachers we’d shared, and figured that we couldn’t have been more than one year apart.
     “I really should remember you,” I said. “But I don’t.”
     “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I tried to be as invisible as possible. I’d be more upset if you had remembered.”
     Today, he was sitting away from the other parents, reading and wearing his don’t-talk-to-me headphones—and I walked right past him.

Inspired by Silver Ghost. Image by craiyon.

Silver Ghost

At first it was a slight reduction in brilliance as she walked down a busy street. Shortly afterwards there was a palpable dimming caused perhaps by bad lighting at the back of the restaurant. Then it became necessary to speak a little louder and develop a sort of shimmering patience when she stood her ground in line. Over the years changes to her teeth, hair, limbs and guts became too faint, too spectral, to catch the attention of professionals. Finally, all that was left was a lengthening shadow cast over an empty hospital bed and an indeterminate whiff of pee.

Image by Laurie Leclair. Inspired by Progress #3.

Inspired by Hare Brained Ideas

It’s good to have the CNE back. It’s also good to have reminders of being “Canadian,” like the Ex itself. It was also good to see the Canadian Armed Forces recruitment exhibit. There is nothing wrong with reminding young people of opportunities to serve their countries. Part of it made me wonder “how young?” There were opportunities to chat with members of the armed forces, pick up display material, and climb into a vehicle. There was a mock shooting area, with people of all ages lined up. It was chilling to see soldiers instructing pre-school children how to kill people.

Inspired Hare Remover. Image by aleks223 on iStock.

Rodent Land

You’d think the squirrels would get the message. The minefield of barriers, the chicken wire around the tulips. All ineffective. They are very well fed. They adore bulbs, but just nip and leave flowers, a show of their disdain.
     Raccoons maraud freely, chittering loudly, leaving their berry-spangled poop. I fill rat burrows as soon as I find them; new ones appear immediately. The other day, I glanced up to find a skunk foraging in the flowerbed next to me. I carefully cleared my throat. He casually raised his tail. Check mate.
     These animals haven’t invaded my garden. I’ve invaded theirs.

Inspired by Hare Remover.  Image from Science with Ms. Seitz.  

Hare Remover

“So, in this one Elmer Fudd’s a Mountie, and he sees Bugs on a wanted poster, and they end up doing a bunch of chase gags through the snow.”
     “Sounds great. We’ll call it Fresh Hare . . . What else you got?”
     “Okay, an old lady lets Bugs in from the cold, but there’s a dog, see? And they keep tricking each other into running outside, until they finally just throw the lady out.”
     “We’ll call it Hare Force!”
     “But Mr. Schlesigner . . .”
     “Listen, Fritz, you just keep moving your little paper dollies around for the camera, and leave the rest to me.”

Inspired by Carnaubic Jars. Image by Warner Brothers.

Carnaubic Jars

“It’s a thing?” I asked the person preparing to wax my schnozzle.
     “Oh yeah, you’ll love it. I do mine all the time.” She pressed tiny Tiki Torches of molten goo to the sides of each nostril.
      Seconds later, the feeling like someone was pulling my brain out through my nose, resulting in two fuzz-free passageways into my inner thoughts and dreams.
      She was right, my snout was perfectly nubile! Breezy. But now every time I do something like put the milk into the cupboard or forget a word, Rich says, “You know, ancient Egyptians did that with crochet hooks . . .”

Inspired by Progress. Image by Craiyon.

Thank You, My Friend

Tiny baby, eyes closed, snuggling against Mummy,

Little puppy, wide eyed, rolls for rubs on tummy, 

Bouncy puppy, running at rabbits, peeing on carpets,
chewing the shoes,

Happy dog, finding the leash, and carrying it to me,

Cautious friend, warning intruders to stay away,

Loving dog, at my feet while I read or watch TV, 

Playful dog, approaching children with wagging tail,

Aging dog, mature and quiet, easy on the leash, 

Old dog, quiet friend, beside me in the garden, 

Aged dog, climbing stairs so slowly,

Sick dog, no longer enjoying life,

A sad goodbye to my beloved friend.

Photo by Olga Bilevich. Inspired by Baa-Maa-Pii, and dedicated to all the dogs we have loved.

Progress #4

Loudly lamenting the plight of the bees
We ban single-use plastic and plant a few trees
Recycle our bottles, compost our corn husks
Then demand cheaper gas for our 4-by-4 trucks 

We avoid throwing out by donating old things
(Which we duly replace with new Amazon bling)
Declaring our virtue, we promise to change
(Though a patch on our jeans seems decidedly strange) 

The fires, the floods, yes we’ve got to take action
But we aren’t going to follow some radical faction
So sure, let’s commit: let's do more with less—
Ride our e-bikes to Costco and call that progress 

Inspired by Progress #3. Photo by John Henderson on Flickr. Some rights reserved.

Baa-Maa-Pii

Siko’s death was peaceful but profoundly sad. As we do for everyone close to us who passes, we lit a candle and kept it burning. Afterwards I dreamt about lightening frizzling in the night sky. One bolt entered my body through my left eye. It was such a vivid and strangely painful dream that I asked my friend, an Oshkaabewis, for his interpretation. He thought about it for a few days, then told me he believed that my constant companion was still constant, but he had found his way home. I checked on the candle and it had stopped burning.

Photo by L. Leclair. Portrait of Siko by Yvonne Boothroyd. Inspired by Flying Home.

Progress #3

Night shirt plastered to clammy skin, thinning hair askew, she places her shaky hands in mine. I pull her up from her bed. Past midnight, the room is in shadows. With heavy breath, she shuffles one gnarled foot forward. Then another. Like teaching a toddler to walk, I hold her upright, keep her balanced. Her grip tightens. One more step. Then another. “Making progress,” I whisper. One more step. Then another. Avoiding her eyes, I look down, ensuring the path is clear to the toilet. “Hold on,” I say. One more step. Then another. I can see our destination ahead.

Inspired by Progress and Progress. Photo by Dmytro Varavin.