Memorial Day

     It's Memorial Day -- and like pretty much every Memorial Day of my entire life, U. S. troops are in danger.  Soldiers and sailors, Marines, aircrew and Guardians.  Fifteen serving military personnel have been killed in the last few months in our ongoing conflict with Iran: undeclared wars are no less deadly than declared ones, and it doesn't matter to the dead or their survivors if it was a war of choice or an unavoidable clash.

     They served and died.  Remember them, not as faceless statistics but as individuals no different from you, your family and your friends.  It's all you can do.  It's little enough to ask.

It's Father's Day

      My Dad has been gone for eighteen years now.  I still miss him.  In some ways, he left a few years earlier; his memory failed him and his last few years were spent as a relatively pleasant stranger among other strangers; but I believe he knew he was loved.

     If your father is still around, take a few minutes to spend with him, even if you don't get along.  He won't be here forever.

Image Of A Man

      The funeral of Elizabeth II, late Queen of the United Kingdom, is going on as I write this.  It's the kind of solemn spectacle the British are particularly good at, one quite foreign to American tastes and customs, deeply moving and painstakingly choreographed.  Despite the state religion, it is carefully ecumenical, with religious representation across the vast breadth of the Commonwealth.

      Television coverage is exquisite and unobtrusive, the assembled personages are impressive.  It is very much a performance, by and for a monarchy that has told itself for so long that it has a higher purpose and duty that, in their better moments, the core royals actually live up to it.  King Charles did recently manifest considerable pique over a leaky pen -- but the man just got launched into a job he has never seemed very eager for, on a relentless schedule; give him that lapse.

      The service has gone on and on, preachers of every faith and major policians having their terns at the pulpit or lectern, the choir and organ performing beautifully, a lot of uniforms and shiny metal, dull cloth and bright, medals arrayed in ruler-straight lines, color and costume overwhelming the senses--

       And the video cut to a shot of the new King Charles, his uniform a memory from the 19th Century, head slightly bent, his face.... 

      His face was a study in grief on a tight rein.  It was the face of an adult child at their Mother's funeral.  No more -- and no less.

      We can look in wonder or question at the elaborate ceremony; we can question the utility and even morality of a country dragging around a monarchy so far into the 21st Century.  But there sat a man who was soon to be burying his mother and working to hold back undignified sobs.  I can't tell you what kind of a King he will be; I have no great insight into what kind of man he has been.  In that moment, he was just a man who had lost his mother, bereft.

The Last Of The Grownups

      Queen Elizabeth is gone.  Her death has hit me unexpectedly hard.  She was very much of my parents generation, a year older than my father and five years older than my Mother.

      Like them -- but far more so -- she grew up in the shadow of a World War.  The Royal family remained in London throughout The Blitz; they didn't flinch from their duty.   Most of the people who fought that war are gone, their life stories fading, but Elizabeth was always right there, all of my life, a visible reminder of the terrible conflict, of the closest call Western Civilization has yet endured.

      And now -- she isn't.  It's just us kids; there aren't any adults left.  I'm not at all confident we're doing an adequate job.

We Lost L. Neil Smith

      Born 12 May, 1946, SF writer and Libertarian activist L. Neil Smith passed away 27 August 2021.  His entertaining books were not only fun but effective introductions to libertarianism, minarchism and anarcho-capitalism, without pages-long lectures. (Paisley hovercraft, dimensional travel and the occasional exploding planet, on the other hand...!)

      The Probability Broach was perhaps his best-known novel and it's just as much fun to read now as it was when it was first published 41 years ago.  You can find it and plenty more of his books here.

      His family has set up a memorial page.

      In recent years, L. Neil Smith and I had drifted apart politically but I never stopped respecting him as a writer and as an effective publicist of libertarianism.  My condolences to his family and to his many other friends.

Ought To Post Something

     We're still pretty quiet around here.

     From 20 June, 2017:

Singing To Tam's Cat

Rannie, Rannie, Underfoot Wu,
How do you say "I love you?"
With winks and blinks and sometimes nods,
Which no one thinks is even odd.

You purr and beg for table scraps,
Or mice we've caught in humane traps.
You'll let no one tell you what to do,
Rannie, Rannie, Underfoot Wu.

     1 March 2020:

Oh dear Rannie, Underfoot Wu,
This life became much too much for you.
Slept curled at my elbow, night after night,
Wheezing and sneezing in the dim light.

Went warm to the register when the furnace ran,
Huddled there comfy and dreamed as cats can.
You left purring and smoothing while we sobbed and held you,
Rannie, Rannie, Underfoot Wu.

Farewell, Miss Wu

     Rannie Wu, Tam's cat Random Numbers J. Wu of the Underfoot Wu sept, has departed this world.

     She had been sick off and on since Autumn, fighting a sinus infection that kept coming back; she'd get over it, go for a month or a week or a few days and get sniffly again.  The vet had begun talking to Tam about quality of life issues, and of the importance of evaluating how the ancient and venerable Wu was coping.  At eighteen and a half, her age was roughly 90 in people years.  She'd been fighting kidney disease for at least four years.

     The most recent sinus infection, she wasn't bouncing back from.  Early this week, the vet gave her subcutaneous fluids and renewed her antibiotic prescription.  She took the drugs well, but she'd stopped eating and nothing would tempt her.  Then she stopped drinking.  She was still sleeping in the crook of my elbow every night.   She was spending her days on my bed atop a woolly throw or in her cat-egg on the window seat in the dining room, and painfully making her way to a register any time the furnace ran, so she could bask in the warm air.  But she kept losing weight.  She had stopped blinking.

     She was already scheduled to return to the vet for further evaluation and hydration in the coming week.  Tam rescheduled the appointment for this morning.

     Rannie was limp as a dishrag and painfully thin.  She slept in her usual spot and even went to the register while I was getting cleaned up but she was listless.  She'd been crying out in pain the last several days.

     At the vet's, the doctor gave Rannie a thorough exam, then consulted with Tam and they decided it was time.  We were able to spend quite awhile with Rannie Wu.  Poor, dear Rannie Wu.

     I miss her.  What a fine cat she was, and how long she carried on.

We've Lost Dustbury

     Charles G. Hill was in a car accident recently, which has resulted in his passing.  He will be much missed.

     Tribute here.

     I'm at a loss for words.

Well, That Was Fun

     Not.  I had forgotten the phlebotomist at the my doctor's office -- an outside contractor, so she works for the lab that does analysis -- is deeply, quietly disappointed in pretty much everyone.  Whoever you are, she's over it.  A smile and "Hello" receives a barely perceptible nod; she's got the art of saying the barest minimum required to get the blood-draw done down flat.

     In a way, it's nice -- you're in and out of the room rapidly and smoothly -- and in a way it's heartbreaking, because the impression she leaves is that she has been let down and kicked by everyone she ever met and she's not giving anyone the least flash of personality ever again.

     I've sat in the two-chair "waiting area," a wide spot in the hallway, and witnessed every patient get the same treatment: not unfriendly, not friendly, efficient, resigned and quick.

     I left as I always do, humbled and amazed that anyone could maintain such armor and hoping there's some spot of sunshine in her life and that it never, ever goes out.  I get the impression she'd drown without a word, annoyed as the waters rose but calmly certain no one would ever throw her a lifeline.

Thanksgiving

     Thanksgiving morning.  First one without my Mom.  Planning to concentrate on cooking and crafts.

     Perhaps an essay later.

Farewell To Jack The Cat

     He was 26. He was a long-haired, gray and white feral tomcat who lived next door. He would always "talk" to me and often came to the fence to be petted. He loved attention, and would purr and smooth on your hand for as long as you'd let him.

     He came up on our front porch this afternoon, talking away, and I went out to pet him. His fur had gotten very matted over the winter and he'd been getting thinner and thinner, despite our neighbor feeding him every day. The neighbor came over soon after and remarked he'd been to see the neighbor on the other side of her yesterday. She said he hadn't been eating much recently. He was a little shaky as he walked around.  But he burbled and purred as we petted him.

     My neighbor called several hours later. She'd found Jack curled up in her garage, in pain and unhappy. She took him to the vet. He died there, with her petting him.

      We'll all miss Jack. He couldn't stand to be indoors for very long at a stretch but he was a good cat. I'm glad he visited me to say goodbye.

Sunday

     So, older sister and I visited the cemetery, with silk floral arrangements for our Mom and for Dad's Mother, who died when I was two and sis was eight.  It's an old and nearly-forgotten place, unmowed so far this year, dandelions all gone to seed.  But there are many trees and there's a creek not too far away, and it's quiet and peaceful.

     Three generations of my father's family are buried there, and some of his and Mom's friends from High School are there, too.  It can make walking through the place unexpectedly poignant: "Oh, here's Goldie...and there's Marvin...."  people my parents knew, people my sister and I knew, at least a little; people whose names are are on buildings and streets in the little  neighborhood where they all lived.  Yes, there's an "X" street, too, named for my grandfather, who owned an auto garage not far from it.

     We left a little quieter than we arrived.

*  *  *

     I picked up a new battery for my motor scooter Sunday afternoon.  I didn't get the old battery out before the weather turned so terribly cold last winter and a short test ride a couple of weeks ago convinced me it was puny and not charging well.  Nobody makes a sealed storage battery of the right physical size and storage capacity to fit the available space, so I end up having to pour acid into the shipped-dry batter, which I don't much like doing.

     Last year, when I was turning in the previous defunct battery and acid container, the friendly countermen at the neighborhood auto-parts store offered to prep the next one for me.  So this year, I took them up on the offer.

     They filled the battery with a casual (but careful) grace that spilled not a drop (I have to keep a box of baking soda and a bottle of water handy), credited me for the dud and sent me on my way.  Once home, I stashed the battery near the scooter, to put in later.  Remember that.

*  *  *

     It was good grilling weather and the corner grocer had a deal on steaks.  It's been hot enough that I was hankering for cucumber-onion salad -- just sliced cucumber and onion, in sweetened, diluted vinegar with a little salt and pepper (and maybe a hint of garlic), so I picked up fixings for that, along with a baking potato and some green salad.

     The grill and hardwood charcoal worked their usual magic; the green salad and potato were great. The cucumber-onion salad was okay, but wanted re-seasoned; this is easily done by pouring off the liquid, making a new batch (sweeter and less salty, with a bit of black pepper) and pouring it over the veggies: these "unpickles" are good for at least a week in the fridge and get better over time.

     After dinner and another episode of The Expanse (Tam is catching up), I went out to the garage to install the new battery in my scooter.

*  *  *

     Everything on an old-fashioned scooter is tiny.  The battery is no exception, easy to sit on its little shelf and strap into place.  Bolt the lugs on the terminals, and you're almost done: it's a conventional battery and there's a vent that needs to have a plastic tube installed.  It's shipped capped, and I noticed the auto-parts guys had left the cap on.

     Heavy "dishwashing" gloves are my preferred protective wear when working with batteries -- even a sealed car battery is pretty filthy after years under the hood and they help avoid that burning sensation.  They're not terribly clumsy to work in but the tiny rubber cap over the vent connection was tricky.  I tugged at it and--
     PFFSSSST-POP!
 
     I stepped back smartly while saying, "Yow!" and dropping the little cap.  There was a faint rotten-egg smell in the air; I stopped inhaling as soon as I caught it, stepped out into the driveway, expelled as much air as I could and breathed in.

     Of course pressure had built up in the battery; the auto-parts clerk had likely assumed I'd be putting it in almost immediately, given the afternoon was pretty good riding weather and we're looking at a week of rain.  I hadn't. I'd left it sitting for several hours in 80-plus -degree heat and thus I'd got a surprise.

     The battery was fine and after a few minutes to let the fumes clear, I finished the job, put the cowling back in place, and rode the scooter up and down the alley a little.  Looks like it'll do!

Mother's Day

     The first one on which I have no mother to call.  My sister and I will probably visit the cemetery today.  Kind of morbid, but where else do we have to go?

You Know What?

     I feel lousy most of the time.  I try not to, but I still do.  And I get tired of always working so hard to look on the bright side.

     Kids, old is just old.  Enjoy what you have while you have it.  Sleep less.  Dance more.   Or write, paint, whatever.  Do it while you can.

Insight Is Where You Find It

     Yesterday morning, I was chatting at Tam and mentioned my admiration for Robert E. Howard, the Texan writer who created Conan the Barbarian and launched "Sword and sorcery" fiction.  Howard's prose could be as purple as the pulps that published it, but he had remarkable imagination, good discipline and an excellent ear for dream-like narrative.

     Robert E. Howard's mother was ill with tuberculosis all of his life.  He helped take care of her and they were very close.  The disease eventually resulted in her death, which appears to have prompted  his suicide.  His mother and father were somewhat estranged to one another, though they stayed married and lived together.

      People -- perhaps F/SF fans especially -- being what they are, the mother-son closeness and his suicide led to all manner of speculation, some of it quite smarmy.  But -- as I remarked to Tam, "It may have been no more than his despair at having failed to keep his mother alive."

     I choked on the last few words and felt unexpected tears rising in my eyes.  Had I failed to keep my mother alive?

     Sometimes it feels that way.  Maybe if I'd been a better child, less of a disppointment, more dutiful, quicker to reconcile...?

     No.  I might've had more time with my family -- stressful though I often found it -- but Mom's heart wore out on her long before she passed.  She kept going for years on pluck and determination, and I am glad we had as much time together as we did.  I still miss her.

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Placeholder

     I have nothing for you.  I'm old (as old as I've even been) and I am feeling pretty down.

I Am In A Lousy Mood

     Seriously lousy.  This whole "interacting with people" thing is reaching at least a middle for me.

Getting Back To --

     No, I can't write it, not yet.  "Back to normal?"  Not going to happen.  I can't call up Mom.  She was there forever, as far as I knew, and now she isn't.

     Both of my parents were hypercompetent people.  At least it seemed that way to me as a child, as a young adult.  Even with maturity (such of it as I have found) and time to provide scale and perceptive, they were outstanding.  Baffled by their children sometimes, but what parent isn't?

     I started this blog about six months after my father passed away.  Now Mom is gone.  Sometimes I still want to ask a grownup what to do -- and then I remember that's my job now.

Tuesday

     Back to work.  Kinda dreading getting caught up.

     Here's a photo of a good-looking young couple.  I first met them a few years later: my Mom and Dad.