Expectations

Dear you,

Another holiday weekend, another hot summer. What to expect?  Do we hope for the best or expect the worst? Are our expectations based on prior experience or does it all just come down to what we ate for lunch? Isn't there something beyond the best/worst binary anyway, something so unexpected that it isn't hoped for or dreaded? Case in point, my latest visit to Walmart:

My mindset as I traveled to the Pier Park Wally last Tuesday: "Oh, hell no, this is going to be a bloody nightmare. Prepare for encounters with drunk "I am on vacation" shoppers and transactions with disengaged workers." Grumpily, I entered the fray. After trying on twenty-nine bathing suits, I exited the dressing room in a huff. Nothing fit. I'd be better off swimming in my underwear (which I do all the time; don't tell my HOA board of directors). Whatever, I had a list to check off, so I moved on. But I was bothered by something irritating my right shoulder blade. I adjusted my cross-body purse strap, tugged on my sundress bodice, and shoulder-rolled my way across the store. Nothing changed. Something weird was back there. I ignored it and focused on task two, the pursuit of the perfect nightlight. While doing that, I heard a bright voice inquire "would you mind if I pull something off your back?" What? "You've got something stuck back there." What is it? She, a lovely ginger Wally employee, just smiled and went to work. After a quick rip, she showed me the culprit. It was one of those nasty panty-liner-protective-strips you find in the crotches of retail bathing suits. Seriously. I had been queening around Walmart with a panty liner stuck to my back. Ginger gal saved the day and my dignity. Surprise! The only trashy shopper in Walmart that day was me. And the employees, notably Ginger gal, were not disengaged. The occurrence was neither the best nor the worst; it was simply refreshing. Unexpected. Surprising.

Another holiday weekend, another hot summer. Who knows what to expect?  

Surprise me!

Love,

Joyce

Simply Mom

Dear you,

The day honoring mothers, 2025. We all had one, obviously.  Some here, some gone. My mom, so many memories. I recall bits and pieces of experience, often small, not dramatic, but (being memories) still quite memorable:

Croquet games in the back yard.

The way she cared for Prince, my gorgeous collie-shepherd canine, after I escaped to New York.

Her perfect Sunday roasts with boiled potatoes.

Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue", one of her favorites, playing on the stereo in our living room.

The ultimate summer dress she created for me from a Ralph Lauren pattern and Laura Ashley fabric.

Fudge pie with melty vanilla ice cream.

Her bangs, a forties tribute, prepped at night with bobby pins. No mirror required.

The way she kept any dramas with Dad, whatever those might have been, to herself.

Her loyal attendance at almost every fabulous or not so fabulous theatre gig I signed up for.

The poetry she quoted in cards and letters, mailed over many decades, no matter where I might be.

The way she appreciated my essential singular self: "sing your song."

Bits and pieces, good stuff. I smile.

I wonder what Mom would make of the current #natalist movement, urging women to reproduce like machines, for the sake of what, I am not sure. The economy, the future of the human race, a sustainable work force (a.k.a. plenty of laborers to clean up after the 1% who seem to be running everything now), whatever.  She would probably not be a fan of that "policy".  She wanted children and she had them/us/me.  Her choice, not an obedient response to some random man-child's master plan. Her choice. 

Honor that.

I do.

Love,

Joyce

#Stronger

Dear you,

It has been a while since I have spoken, but I am alive and well and somewhat stronger. I have relocated, just a bit, to the east of my previous abode. Leaving behind the chaos of condo-life in a situation where 99% of the bodies in that space were there for a fast, short vacation, I purchased a townhome in a residential community (ah, residential!) in Bay County, to the east of old 30A/Walton County nonsense. Now, here, I regain a center, calm my fight-or-flight response, and enjoy a bit of sane beauty. My lovely feline enjoys the two-floor set-up, dashing up and down the stairs; she has multiple windows to view birds in flight and greenery. I have peace. And sleep. And beauty. And no need for cable, just NPR and a solid internet connection via a tablet/phone hotspot. Ah, alas, NPR, another thing on the new regime's hit list. But, at present, they stand strong and carry on. So, this blog, #stronger.

Stronger:

The POTUS continues his assault on law firms, journalism, foreign films (!), and anything remotely awake, or as they say, woke. During this siege, we witness people and institutions resisting and in some notable cases, winning. They are becoming #stronger.

Locally, here in a still-Panhandle-bright-red-zone of Florida, I see evidence of strength. Yesterday at the Pier Park, Panama City Beach, Walmart parking lot, I saw this car. This car's owner was/is so fucking strong, so brave. Decals scattered over the rear windows and bumpers spoke, denouncing our current POTUS as a Hitler equivalent. Quite unapologetically, the car spoke: this guy and his supporters are deplorable assholes who intend to grind you down. You might see such car-sticker speech anywhere in the USA, but here in the deep-red Panhandle of Florida, not so often. It testifies to a certain level of bravery: go ahead, slash my tires, I will not bow to your autocracy. Impressive, I think. I was too weak to put a Kamala for president sticker on my little vehicle.  This person, these people, are fearless.  God love them.  They are #stronger.

You know, we all have muscles.  We just have to use them. The bodily kind, the mental-political kind, the spiritual kind.

On this night, in this new and lovely and peaceful place, still amid the right-wing (but at least of the quiet variety) I am working out, working on all those versions of muscle.

How are you? Stay strong. Get #stronger. Balance and reach, like the gentleman pictured on the seaside rock in the photo above. 

This is the moment. This is the time. On the verge, we can artfully and wisely push back and save the best, the truly beautiful.

Stay strong for democracy. It ain't dead yet!

Love,

Joyce