The secret life of Grandma

“The secret life” has been a rejoinder between Laura and me for the last six months. Emptying the trash one evening, she spied an empty Panera coffee cup. “What’s this!? When did you go there!? I didn’t know about it!”

“The secret life of grandma,” I replied.

Since then, if she knows, she smugly remarks she knows about the secret life of grandma. But, if she doesn’t know, she sets about finding out. Toward that end, I try to leave a clue about new secrets. 

Today I met a new acquaintance for lunch, and told myself to bring back a napkin or some such thing for a trash clue.

Lynn is not so much a new acquaintance. We’ve sat beside each other for months, waiting for our respective one p.m. counselor appointments. We get on so well for ten minutes every other Wednesday, we decided to go to lunch. And so we did, today.

We discovered in short order, we grew up on North Hill in Akron. My sister and I often remarked how often children who grew up on the hill moved back as adults, as Lynn had done. North Hill is big enough to have three elementary schools, a junior and a senior high, so being from the hill doesn’t equate to being from the neighborhood.

Lynn, though, grew up on the third street behind me. She’s six years younger, and I didn’t remember her, so I asked if she knew my sister, Janice Lytle. “L-y-t-l-e,?”, she asked. “Was Melvin Lytle your brother? I still have the love letter he wrote me in fifth grade!”

The restaurant closes at two, and they sort of boosted us out, so we’ll pick this up another time. And, I forgot to bring home a clue. So, let's not mention this until next time.

Easter, about 1955

My brother Walt, me, mom, Mel,

and Janice, the baby who can't lift Mom's purse.

I've used this picture before, and sub-titled Jan as the one who never was spanked.

All out there, now

§                   potus doubles down on immigration ban

potus removes top military and intelligence advisors from regular attendance at National Security Council

European leaders reject potus’ refugee ban

potus isn’t a liar; he doesn’t even care about the truth

The ban on immigration makes me sick to my stomach. What else to do? I’ve said I’m technically illiterate, and believe me, I am. I can fire up one little synapse in my brain over a new process, and I follow it with blinders to the end, because I really don’t get it.

But what’s happening to people right this minute, yesterday, today, tomorrow, is wrenching. I roused my daughter and then my granddaughter from breakfast. “How do I make a twitter account? @TheRealDonaldTrump needs to hear from me, right now.”

I have little idea what I’m doing, but @jnoragon has sent two tweets to @TheReal. I cannot throw my body at this wall of ignorance, so I’m left with noise.

What else, friends? Suggestions welcome.

Yin and Yang are working with a desolate landscape

My Yin and Yang knowledge is the usual schoolgirl type. The contrary forces around us now are not complementary. Yang is not bright and positive, but using its force to stop ordinary folks at airports, detain them at will. People on business trips, travelling home from vacation, students.  

Power changes people; not necessarily in a bad way, I'm sure, but when added to a personality already obsessed with the grandiose, the uses of power are  ranging  from petty to autocratic. Today I am sick at heart. The new potus is devoid of empathy, and today’s postcards include one to him, telling him not to become the fool of power.

Back in my real world, I still need to be the change. Youngsters wear that slogan on their shirts, on their backpacks, on their trinkets. It’s the distillation of my philosophy of doing the right thing in my sphere. Today was a good day.

I went back to my birdseed store and bought a bag of mixed safflower, sunflower and peanuts. Laura filled the bird feeder this morning, and we had a tufted titmouse before she was back indoors.

Today was the monthly stock up grocery run. Even more fun because my daughter Beth, and granddaughter Caroline, came to pass the couple of hours Francis is at rock climbing class. I love these people.

Caroline has a new haircut. The last time you saw her, she had a messy bun, like Laura usually wears. Today, a bob. Her story is, the hair was in her face in gym class and she had nothing to secure it. After school, she and her girlfriend cut her hair. They braided it at her neckline and cut it off. "It's like cutting a rope."

But, not the end of the story. Grandma Ruth declared the cut as close to a disgrace to hair as Grandma Ruth is able to sound disapproving. Caroline went to Grandma Ruth's hairdresser, who "loves to clean up bad cuts." "It wasn't that bad," Caroline said.

The three of us went grocery shopping; Beth stayed home to catch up on paperwork. The entire shopping trip went indoors in one trip. Each has two bags of groceries and they split the cat food and litter.

Beth in the kitchen, working. Oh, that arm. She's become a lefty, and wonders how Francis does it. She's just recently conquered the number 8, and confesses her 9's are only upside down 6's.

The girls put away the groceries; I stuffed envelopes for Beth, and it was time for them to go. "See you next time you're the designated rock climber mother.

A riddle

Years and years ago, when I was the controller of a division of a subsidiary of Maytag Corporation, I attended a regional meeting at another division, in Cleveland, Tennessee. I elected to drive, to continue on to a vacation trip. Approaching, crossing and leaving the Holston River, we could scarcely breathe; the stench was gagging and nostril closing.

I asked someone at my destination about the smell. "You know what we call that smell," he asked. "We call it the smell of money." There was a Hammermill paper mill upriver.

Here's another riddle. What doe this picture illustrate? Well, considering the phrase I used all last fall was "Put your money where your mouth is," isn't that appropriate. Today I put my money where my mouth is.

There are one hundred gen-u-ine U.S. postcards, stampeded and everything.Tonight I directed two of them to my senator, Robert Portman, on the issues of the appointment of Betsy DeVos to Secretary of Education and his participation in the rapid repeal of ACA with no replacement. I have a dear friend in the arts whose hair is just now returning after her bout with breast cancer. Without ACA, what would she have done! Now she has a pre-existing condition.

I also signed petitions, one asking potus to disclose his tax returns and the other asking him to put his bizillions of assets in a blind trust. The first has enough signatures for response, according to the rules of the web site. The other is getting there. Though we all know rules aren't big in potus' playbook, go for it if you're interested.

So, that was about sixty minutes of my time. It's time to go knit on my sweater and watch "Fixer Upper."

Such a weekend!

I mentally wished everyone Godspeed, then went to bed Friday night. I knew I could not watch for the march on television Saturday morning, just like I could not watch the inauguration. I’d wait to day’s end, and be ecstatic or crushed.

Beth stopped for a couple of hours Saturday morning. She was the weekend mom for Francis’ rock climbing group. Beth is a direct descendant of my grandmother and my mother. Just a month ago she was helping a friend who has a shop in the old, and now trendy, section of Cleveland. She fell down the last four basement steps, careening off the stone walls and landing on the concrete floor. She broke her right shoulder, tore muscle and tendon from the elbow and shattered her radius and ulna.

They waited several days for surgery, to assemble the three surgeons required to repair the damage. I imagine her in three times the pain of my broken shoulder, but Saturday was her rotation to ferry the load of rock climbers, so she did. She sat on my sofa and did her exercises for two hours.

Later, Laura and I went grocery shopping, then to visit K at the old house, with cookies and our Christmas puzzle. Late afternoon my phone buzzed a text from Beth: On Facebook there are posts from all over the world. The march is all over the world! It is so amazing.

We wrapped the puzzle at six, and came home. I looked at Facebook. I spent until bedtime, reading all the posts. I want you to know, I cried. Four million women, children and men all over the world. There is a voice for human rights and equality. We must not lose that voice again.

In my news feed this morning, Politico says potus fumes over the inaugural crowd size. Were they turned back at the gate, I wondered. In the news, seas of pink and placards. Did you see the four in Moscow, with signs, and posting Strolling with you in Moscow. Marches are banned. John Lewis in Georgia, “I know something about marching!”

Back to business this morning. The Washington Post announcing potus has bombed the health care markets. Remember, Don’t Mourn; Organize. 

The weekly newsletter, Actions for Democrats, Independents &Republicans of Conscience is in my mail box, and this week a device after my own heart. A checklist! I thumbed through the links to finding information, and they are good.

I live in an extremely gerrymandered district, giving me three representatives to chose among according to my zip code. I know my representative because it’s my job to know this stuff. But this link goes on to refine the search by zip plus four, and there’s my representative.

There is a search for senator, for phone numbers, email addresses, and mail addresses. There are explanations of strategies that work well. And, this week’s activism list includes a good old fashioned Mr. Smith Goes to Washington tactic. “Get a pile of postcards (or sheets of 110lb cardstock to make your own); get stamps; a book or two of 34-cent stamps for postcards.” Signing you name on an email petition is far less effective than writing a few lines of what you are objecting to. Actions for American of Conscience has many you can research and follow up on.

I’ve printed my worksheet, and will have it filled in before we go back to finish the puzzle over supper tonight. Tomorrow morning, as my grandmother said, “Pull up your corset strings, girls. We have work to do.”