Putting the “Public” in Public Broadcasting

By Penny Costello

There’s a whole lot going on these days. Civil and political discord, economic upheaval, uncertainty on so many fronts, and, well, in a word, mayhem. It would seem our better angels have gone on sabbatical. After enjoying a 22-year career in public broadcasting in Nebraska, and being given the opportunity to capture that history and share it with viewers, listeners, and supporters in many ways over the years, I feel a great sense of gratitude that I had the opportunity to be part of that world, and to be able to experience Nebraska through that lens.

So, when I read the announcement that the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) would be shutting down operations at the end of September, I was both heartbroken and flabbergasted. Apparently, we’re not living in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood anymore, and it’s definitely not a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

In its article “What the Corporation for Public Broadcasting Shutting Down Means for PBS And NPR”, Time magazine explains the ramifications of federal funding recissions for public media, especially in rural areas.

“Without CPB grants, some stations may be forced to reduce staff, cut programming, or shut down altogether. That could have a significant impact in smaller communities, where public media stations are often among the few remaining sources of local journalism. Researchers have classified many rural areas as “news deserts” due to the decline of local newspapers and commercial outlets. Public broadcasters have filled that gap in many communities by providing access to local news coverage, educational content, and emergency alerts.”

On a more positive note, public response in many areas has been to increase donations to their local stations, but that doesn’t replace the role that CPB has filled since 1967. That role includes providing funding to stations for operations and content development, production, and distribution. CPB also supports independent media production throughout the country through the Independent Television Service (ITVS). Carrie Lozano, President and CEO of ITVS made this very powerful statement about the importance of public media and support of documentary filmmakers to our democracy. It also includes support and distribution through the National Multicultural Alliance, a group of five organizations providing services for multicultural storytellers.  VisionMaker Media is part of the National Multicultural Alliance, and is headquartered in Lincoln at Nebraska Public Media. VisionMaker  supports the work of Indigenous content producers throughout the country. 

I retired from my role at Nebraska Public Media in 2018. On my last day there, my grandson began his first day as a freelance studio production crew member, and he has since joined the staff as a full-time Production Specialist. That certainly deepens the fondness and sense of legacy I have with this organization, and my commitment to see that it continues to thrive. I’ll be increasing my financial support, and I have faith that NPM will prevail, evolve, and continue.

Over the entrance to the Nebraska State Capitol is inscribed the famous quote by Hartley Burr Alexander, “The salvation of the state is the watchfulness of the citizen.” Nebraska Public Media has supported and facilitated our watchfulness for nearly 70 years. Now public media needs our watchfulness and support more than ever. We are the “Public” in “Public Media”.

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August Potpourri

There’s a whole lot going on these days. Civil and political discord, extreme weather, and, well, humans being human. Join us on a heartfelt and heart-filled, circuitous ramble through the fields of Mayhem.

The Loss of Those Girls ...
 By JoAnne Young

 It’s been a month now since 27 young girls and camp counselors died in an explosion of water through Camp Mystic in Texas. The flooding of the Guadalupe River took many more lives in that tragic July 4 storm, but it is the children --  those girls -- I can’t stop thinking about.

 We’ve seen pictures now of many of them, all freckles and ponytails, beaded necklaces and adult and baby teeth shining through 8-year-old smiles. They are the girls who could have someday become scientists or doctors, special education teachers, mothers, maybe heroes. They could have added so much to a needy world.

Scott Simon of NPR in a tribute said this: “We think of the years that should have been ahead of them, filled with laughter, learning, friends, new adventures, fun, frustration, love and heartbreak and love again.”

I also think about the soul deep grief of their parents and grandparents, family and friends left to imagine these darling children being carried away, out of reach, too fast to rescue. Parents who kissed them good-bye just days before and told them not to be nervous, to have fun. 

Other children died outside of the camp in that flood, and some children who survived lost their parents. I’m thinking of them, too. And there are the two Nebraska girls who died Tuesday with their father in a horrific explosion at a plant in Fremont, Hayven Danielson, who was 12, and her sister Fayeah, 8.

We know the deep hole they all leave in their families’ lives. What we will never know is what our country and our world will have lost with their absence. 

***

A Summer’s Gift
Mary Kay Roth

I’ve never done an accurate job describing the sound of cicadas. 

A crescendo of buzzing voices. A cadence of rhythmic, high-pitched whines. A symphony of clicks, drones, whirrs, hisses. 

But perhaps words don’t really matter, because for me cicadas are simply the sound of summer. 

Once upon a time I listened randomly.  Nowadays I head outside each evening, around dusk, with a cup of tea or a glass of wine. 

Listening. 

To the bass of a bullfrog, the whoosh of sprinklers, the splash of kids in a pool, the call of their parents telling them it’s late. 

Distant thunder. The jingle of an ice cream truck. The faraway chords of an outdoor concert, buzzing lawnmowers, trilling meadowlarks. 

And cicadas. 

Their famous sound only emanates from the guys, using special structures called tymbals, located below each side of the front abdomen. The tymbals contain a series of ribs that buckle one after the other when the cicada flexes its muscles – and every time a rib buckles, the rib produces a click. 

In fact, the legendary insect song has been featured in literature as early as Homer’s Iliad.  Specifically, the elderly Trojan counselors are described as fluent orators, sitting on the tower “like cicadas that chirrup delicately from the boughs of some high tree in a wood.” 

I’ve always thought their cry was a little sad, perhaps foreshadowing the close of summer. According to legend, cicadas are filled with the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because they never wrote the poems they wanted to.

***

The Season for Good Eating  
by Marilyn Moore 

Mom was a gardener.  She planted, nurtured, watered, weeded, harvested, and preserved most of the food we would eat year-round.  It was a lot of work.  She liked it…I think it was the sheer satisfaction of seeing plants grow, knowing that the harvest would provide for our family.  Most of the year, we ate the summer produce that she had canned or frozen.  But in the summer….well, as Mom said, “It’s the season for good eating.”

 I’m not that gardener.  And because of transportation and storage and imports from around the world, we can buy fresh produce in the local supermarket all year long.  Still, it’s not the same; that tomato that was grown somewhere, harvested green, packed and refrigerated and shipped to Lincoln, is not the tomato that comes off the plant in your own garden, or your neighbor’s garden, or from the local farmer who is selling at the farmers’ market.

 So August is a celebration, a season of good eating.  On my kitchen counter now, Colorado peaches.  Naber’s sweet corn.  Tomatoes from the farmer’s market.  In the upcoming days, BLT’s.  Cherry tomato salad.  Peach pie.  Peach cobbler.  Corn on the cob with nearly every meal. Some new recipes, some from my mom’s recipe box.  All of it good, all of it fresh, all of it a reminder that this season of good eating nourishes my physical body and my spiritual body.  It’s another tie this urban dweller can make to the soil, the sun, the rain, the seed, upon which all life depends.  

***

Exercise?

By Mary Reiman

 What moves me? Stretching...literally.  Not stretching my mind, stretching my body.   Years ago, I didn’t feel the need to work out the kinks early in the morning. Now I am   fascinated by those exercise reels where they make everything look so easy. At full   speed, they are swinging their arms around the heads and doing crunches touching   knees to nose...and all the time they are smiling! That doesn’t happen in my world.   However, it is amazing how a two-minute series of stretches, first thing in the morning,   can set the tone for the day. Time well spent.

***

Finding Pawsitivity & Purrpose as a Petsitter

By Penny Costello

I am a crazy dog lady. I have often joked that my true purpose in life is to be a human dog bed, but that I need to figure out how to get paid for it. Apparently, the Universe has been listening and responded.

Regular readers of this blog know my story of sustaining a traumatic brain injury after falling headfirst into a ravine almost 11 years ago. Before that, my career trajectory was based on very timeline and deadline intensive pursuits, including event management, television production, and grantwriting. Over time, it became apparent that the demands of those deadline intensive pursuits were no longer a good fit. Traumatic brain injuries can wreak havoc with executive skills like planning, task initiation and completion. Ten years later, these are still impacts that I grapple with. I’ve made progress over the years, and I’ve also learned that sometimes it’s better to not set myself or esteemed co-workers up for that kind of stress and exasperation. Instead, I chose to resign from the grantwriting job, and forge new pathways.

That’s where the Universe and human dog bed thing came in. A couple of former co-workers had plans to go on vacation, and they asked me if I could take care of their dogs while they were gone. I happily accepted. Over time, and through word-of-mouth, my client base, and membership in The Good Dog Club has expanded, and my aspiration to be a human dog bed has come to fruition.

So many sweet, snuggly pups give me joy and friendship. And the opportunity to provide peace of mind and comfort to their humans, knowing their fur babies are safe and loved is incredibly gratifying. My circle of human friends has grown, and housesitting for people and their pets provides a nice change of scene from time to time.

Sometimes the bumpy roads and unexpected turns can lead to wondrous places. I’ll continue to look forward to whatever is around the next turn.

***

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An open letter to Sen. Deb Fischer

Dear Sen. Deb Fischer, 

 

We are not pen pals, although I know some of your pen pals, quite a few actually. They send you letters, revealing their innermost feelings about your representation of Nebraska in the United States Senate. They try to reason with you. They plead with you. You write them back, sort of, telling them their comments are important, but that you really don’t agree with them.

 

I do not write letters or emails or make phone calls to you, because I know I could not change your mind or your vote on anything. There are stronger forces at work in your decision making. 

 

But last week I happened to see something you posted on Facebook that prompted me to write this open letter. It made me fume and pace for a few minutes, until I decided I had to write something to ease my anxiety. 

 

Here is what you posted: “Thanks President Trump for hosting a beautiful and fun White House dinner with colleagues to celebrate a very successful first 6 months of working together for the American people!” It was accompanied by three photos: 1) A gilded dinner plate, the likes of which I will never eat from, on a table with a large white rose centerpiece; 2) You and President Trump laughing together; 3) The dinner menu, the font designed and written by a White House calligrapher. It was elegant writing and made even Tomato Sauce look fit for a queen. 

 

May I share?

You were served: 

Sweet Pea and Ricotta Raviolo

Creamed Corn

Tomato Sauce ... Shaved Pecorino

Pan-roasted Dover Sole

Beurre Rouge

Sunchoke Puree ... Oyster Mushrooms 

Lemon-scented Broccolini

Cider-spiced Plums 

Raspberry Craquelin Choux

Vanilla Ice Cream 

 

The upshot is this: You, as a woman representing the state of Nebraska in the United States Senate, were celebrating the “One Big Beautiful Bill” and “a very successful first six months of working together for the American people.” You were celebrating with top-chef foods on golden plates, and having laughs with a president who thrives on name calling and revenge against respectable people who he has decided are his enemies. 

 

You were celebrating six months of what you perceived as having worked for the benefit of the American people. If you recall, as you were sworn in for your third term, you said, “Together we will continue to stand tall for our shared values and take care of our people.” 

 

Sen. Fischer, I have lived in Nebraska for decades, so by definition could be called a Nebraskan. You do not share my values. My values do not include celebrating significant cuts to health care and nutrition programs, like Medicaid and food assistance, having “fun” while people worry in your home state about how they will feed their families without help, or while those around the country wonder who will help if their city is flooded, or their house is wrecked by a hurricane or tornado. 

 

My values do not include cutting off funding for important medical research that could save lives, or eliminating backing for public media that provides crucial information to Americans, including Nebraskans. They do not include firing government workers without cause who  provide needed services to your constituents, and treating the remaining federal employees with disrespect for their dignity and the time they have devoted to the people of this country and state. 

 

On April 18, 2012, on your last day in the Nebraska unicameral Legislature, you told your fellow senators and constituents that from the first time you saw your name up on our Legislature’s voting board you realized that “every time you hit a red or a green (button) you affect somebody's life in this state. Every time you stand up and speak on the mic in opposition or in favor ... you are affecting everybody's life in this state. Every time you introduce a bill, every time you work hard on that bill to get it passed, every time you work with your colleagues to build a coalition, you affect somebody's life in this state.” 

 

You said it made a deep impression on you. Have you forgotten about those Nebraska lives? The lives of the 340,000 children, women and men in this state who rely on Medicaid for medical care? The more than 155,000 people who rely on supplemental food to get through the week? The ones who can barely afford a $4 loaf of bread, $4 pound of hamburger, $5 box of cereal, $5 carton of eggs, $5.50 gallon of milk or $20 can of baby formula? 

 

This was your statement: “The One Big, Beautiful Bill delivers. It reflects Nebraskan values — strong defense, smart spending, and support for those who serve. With this law, we are taking national security seriously and building a safer, more secure future for all Americans.”

 

I know a lot of Nebraskans are writing to you, expressing their concerns about your voting and actions. When you bother to have your staff reply, you tell them you are prioritizing “cutting wasteful spending” and “reforming Congress’s broken budget process.” Can you provide details? No? You say their suggestions, comments and feedback are “very important” to you. Have you considered how your support of the current administration has put family farms and rural hospitals at risk and negatively impacted education? How it has reduced respect for the United States around the world? How tariffs will raise the cost of living?

 

You have been called tough, formidable, strong, tenacious, fearless. Rep. Mike Flood said you were a person of passion and principles. Please use those qualities for the benefit of all people of Nebraska, not just the politicians with whom you now surround yourself. 

 

Use them for working out compromises that benefit common people and those who need your toughness, strength and fearlessness. Use them to keep government honest and represent your constituents' interests, even those who have less money and privilege than you. Use them to raise the intelligence level in our nation’s capital, to model compassion and integrity for the young people on your staff and in the halls of Congress and beyond. 

 

I will remind you that you did not get the majority of votes in the 2024 election in Lancaster and Douglas counties, the two largest counties in the state. Remember those 439,212 Nebraskans who did not vote for your “values.” 

 

Celebrate making their lives better, too. 

Sincerely, JoAnne Young

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What defines us...

by Mary Reiman

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen...and heard...the loons in Northern Minnesota. Last week we joined friends who make that journey every July. I can see why they are drawn to the area and I’m so grateful they asked year after year until we finally made the trek with them to that special slice of Americana. 

From the sunrises,

To the lake,    

  

To the turtle races.  

Truly...a perfect vacation in the heart of the Chippewa National Forest.

Vacation was made more special as we stopped in Southern Minnesota on our way home. My sister had her bags packed and joined us for the rest of the journey.

She has been in Minnesota as long as I have lived in Nebraska. She raised a family. She worked. I worked. We usually met in the middle for holidays with mom and dad. 

Yes, I have written about her before, but she’s never stayed at my house for more than a day or two. 

Not until this week. A week of great joy!

We went to the farmer’s market and found beets. Yes, we now have pickled beets!

We drove around Lincoln and laughed about all the cones.

Yes, they are back in full force, aren't they? (And did we ever determine where they are stored for the winter?)

We wandered around shops. There's no one more fun to shop with...she notices everything and I see her brain spinning as she thinks about how it will fit with her decor.

We had dinner with friends, compared book titles....and talked...and talked...and talked. 

 

My heart is full of love and admiration. She's a fabulous woman, with a heart of gold. 

I wish she had stayed longer...and missed her as soon as her husband met us in Onawa for their trip back home. So many more things to do, places to go, stories to share. Next time....

And now, I am attempting to balance the relaxation of my week with the overlying cloud of the continuing mayhem. Another protest. Following the legacy of John Lewis as he described the need to make 'good trouble.' 

To show we care. To show our state senators that the funding for NPR and PBS is not "reckless spending." It is an important source of local programming in our state. How can that be called reckless?

And funding for U.S. food aid overseas. Wasteful spending?

Compassion for those in need of food and medical resources and a safe place to sleep in our global community. How can that be described as wasteful? We can not/must not stop asking...as a country, what IS our moral compass?

It seems the ups and downs of our weeks do define us....and drive us.

July has been a time for travel, family and friends in my world. I know how lucky I am to be surrounded by such goodness and love.

It has also been a month to continue giving voice to our frustrations, fears, concerns for our country, for our democracy.

How do we balance the anxiety of the world with our daily lives?  At this point, I believe it is staying informed, watching, listening, learning, asking questions....and making good trouble.

Strong Women

 

By Marilyn Moore

The year was 1665.  The setting, a small mountainous village in England.  The plague was sweeping across Europe, killing millions of people.  And when it came to this small village, carried by the fabric of a roaming tailor, the people who lived there made an extraordinary decision.  They decided to isolate themselves from the surrounding villages, hoping that the disease would not continue to spread beyond their village boundaries.  They made an agreement with the next closest village, seven miles down the road, that it would provide all of life’s necessities, including food, fiber, and what was needed to sustain animals, for a year, at no cost, in exchange for the safety of isolation.  Provisions would be dropped off at a designated spot, on a schedule such that the person bringing supplies would not see nor have any contact with the person picking up the supplies.  And so the village lived this way, for a year.  

People became ill.  People died.  There was fear and distrust.  And a few heroes emerged, the helpers.  Chief among them was Anna, a young widow, with young sons who succumbed to the illness.  She herself became ill, but survived.  She became the caregiver for those who were ill.  She learned of remedies and medications derived from roots and plants from the woman in the village who had such knowledge, but who was viewed with suspicion as a devil, a witch, a being of Satan…who was drowned because people feared she was making them ill, rather than making them better.  Anna rescued her salves and ointments and dried leaves and berries, and she made use of them as she cared for those struck by the plague.  And she tried not to let people know that she had this knowledge, lest they kill her, too.

The story is told by Geraldine Brooks in her book Year of Wonders.  It is inspired by the true story of Eyam, an isolated village in the hill country of England.  

She tells another story in Caleb’s Crossing, this one set in Martha’s Vineyard and in colonial Massachusetts, in the 1660’s.  Caleb is the first indigenous person to be awarded a degree from Harvard, and “crossing” in the title refers to the immense difficulty in crossing between his native indigenous culture and the colonial academic culture.  Brooks chooses to tell the story through the eyes of Bethia, a young woman, daughter of the local minister, who befriends Caleb when both are children.  

Like Anna, in the English village at the same time, Bethia is not supposed to learn to read.  Nor is she supposed to know anything of traditional school subjects of the time.  But she manages to be near the room where her father is tutoring her brother, so she can listen in while she carries out her household chores.  She is not supposed to know anything of the language of the indigenous people who live on the island…but she learns it.  And in the course of the story, her knowledge of academia rescues her brother from an ignominious end at Harvard.  Her knowledge of the indigenous language rescues Caleb from danger, including the near loss of his soul in the moments before he dies.  She worked so hard at all the tasks that women were supposed to do, and she worked so hard to not let it be known that she could read, and think, and communicate in the indigenous language, because such was not permitted, and punishment was sure.

Another such story is told in The Frozen River, this one by Ariel Lawhon.  This is the story of Martha Ballard, a midwife in the town of Hollowell, Maine, in 1789.  The book is based on the journal kept by Martha Ballard, a real midwife, in Maine, at that time; her actual journal entries are the heart of the story.  Like most young women at the time, Martha had not gone to school, had not learned to read.  A hundred years after Anna and Bethia, but girls were still not taught to read.  In Martha’s case, she learned to read after marrying; her husband taught her.  (And such a delightful side note, he used the Song of Solomon in the Bible to do so…a very romantic, some would say sensuous, text.  But I digress….)  

As a midwife, Martha attends to the births in the community, and she is generally the health care provider for all.  People send for her when they are ill, when there are babies to be born, when death is near.  And yet, some are suspicious of her knowledge…wondering if perhaps those ointments and tinctures and mixtures of leaves and berries are really the work of the devil.  And while she’s required by law to provide testimony in court in some cases (particularly in the case of an unmarried woman who gives birth to a child and who does not name the father), she can’t testify unless her husband is in the courtroom.  Because her word…is valid only if said in the presence of her husband.  

Of the dozens of books I’ve read in the past year, these three stand out in my mind.  I believe Anna and Bethia and Martha have taken up permanent space in my brain, and my soul.  First, because I’m reminded all over again how very hard, and how very dangerous, it was to be a woman in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.  Everything was hard.  The basic, daily tasks of preparing meals, providing clothing, and keeping a house warm required hard physical work.  Add the dangers of pregnancy and childbirth, the labor required to grow and preserve food, freezing winters and blistering summers, and life was just hard.  (And I would add that this had not changed much for my grandmothers, living in Nebraska in the early 1900’s, though both had been to school and were readers.) I hope they had strong women friends….

But what most strikes me about these three women is that they were not allowed to learn.  Women were simply not seen as having any role in life for which they would need to be able to read, or think, or write.  And despite not being allowed, they all did.  And they saved lives because they learned.  I can only imagine the difference in the quality of life in those villages had the number of people who could read been doubled. 

In all three of these cases, the women lived.  The tailor, who brought the plague to the village in England and for whom Anna cared, died.  But Anna lived.  Caleb died, but Bethia, who provided care for him, lived.  Martha cared for patients during a diptheria outbreak and through all the normal illnesses and tragic accidents of the time.  Many died; but she lived.

Starre Vartan, author of The Stronger Sex, to be published this month, cites research by multiple scientists who assert that women are biologically made to be stronger.  That holds true in extreme circumstances, such as famine, epidemics, and enslavement, across time and across continents.  In an interview published by CNN, she describes many contributing factors to this finding.  Three of them strike me as especially interesting.  One is the X chromosome.  Persons assigned female at birth have two X chromosomes, and that is an advantage over those assigned male at birth, who have the XY chromosome pattern.  The X chromosome is larger, containing 10 times more genes than the Y chromosome.  This means that female bodies have access to a much larger array of immune genes, increasing the likelihood of surviving infections and diseases.  

A second finding interesting to me is that the female small intestine is longer than that found in males, which means our bodies absorb more nutrients from the same quantity of food, nutrients needed to replenish the body during menstruation, pregnancy, and breastfeeding.  

A third finding…estrogen confers a variety of immune advantages, testosterone does just the opposite. Women also have higher counts of active neutrophils, the white blood cells that fight infections.  

Anna, Bethia, and Martha survived…because their bodies were built for survival.  Because they persisted to learn despite social and cultural prohibitions, which often caused them to disguise what they had learned, they saved the lives of many others.  While being thought of as “the weaker sex,” they were not.  Perhaps the men in the power structure, and it was all men in the power structure, knew in some way that women really were stronger, and if they were also allowed to learn and speak of what they knew, the power structure would no longer be only men.  Perhaps remnants of that thinking still persists today….

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Searching for my patriotism amidst the rubble

By Mary Kay Roth

Fifty years ago, I wore my love beads and burned the flag, protesting against the Vietnam war – protesting for civil rights and women’s rights – protesting all things wrong with our country.

I was accused of not being a patriot.

After all, I’ve never really liked the Star-Spangled Banner and “the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air.”

Through the years I’ve continued to balance a love-hate relationship with the United States of America, further complicated over the past decades with George Floyd, Jan. 6 and a wash of new books and tough truths that question the blind “greatness” in our country.

Rah, rah, rah.  Yeah right.

So, on this red-white-and-blue holiday weekend I’ve been thinking a lot about patriotism, what it means for me.  And, if the outbreak of similar columns is any measure, I’m not alone in asking: Do I still love this country?  

Mark Twain's perspective on patriotism is acutely appropriate right now: "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it."  He believed the phrase "My country, right or wrong," was an insult to the nation. 

I certainly don’t love my government when it is led by racists, xenophobes and evil doers who believe the American dream involves erasing the Constitution and coldly cutting off anything good – forgetting the very things that make this country great. 

I don’t love my government when black-masked agents nab refugee and migrant families from their homes and take them away without due process – when 17 million people are now projected to lose health insurance – when the wealthy further line their pockets.

I don’t love a president who not only exposes but champions the underbelly of America – or congressional folk who, just in time for Independence Day, pass perhaps the most horrendous piece of legislation in memory: devastating Medicaid, cutting food assistance for children, diverting public school funding to benefit rich families, boosting an already out-of-control deportation force, defunding Planned Parenthood clinics and so much more.

These days, many of the younger generations don’t believe in patriotism, my own kids questioning why we need to love a specific country.  They challenge me to love and care for an entire world.

I understand the value of embracing everyone around the globe.

But there were moments over July Fourth this year when I paused – in wonder..

When my grandchildren of different colors played side by side.

When the news was filled with neighborhood children’s parades as well as nationwide protests.

When good friends scrambled to furnish an apartment for a new refugee family – while others started a Fund A Need for a young woman suffering addiction and losing Medicaid.

When my granddaughter made a new friend at the zoo – just by sharing toys in the sandbox.

Turns out, perhaps a bit reluctantly, I do love my country.  I love what it can be and should be.  And I won’t allow right-wing jingoists to kidnap my flag, when I still believe it stands for a set of ideas worth defending.

I love my country when I continue to write blogs and social media posts that criticize – without reprisal.  (Admittedly, at least for now.) I love the USA when columnists and journalists openly blast our country ... specifically over the Fourth of July.

I love my country when Trump fades at the polls while I experience an exhilarating sense of comradeship with those who celebrate those polls.

I loved my country while I stood arm in arm with folks at Woods Park, lining O street and chanting “No More Kings,” joining more than 4 million people in massive protests across the country – overshadowing President’s Trump’s dismal parade.

I loved my country when, as I protested, several trucks pulled up in front of us – and they weren’t there to take us away.  They were trucks from a local business employing migrant workers who pulled out coolers of water to thank us all. 

Like Mark Twain, I adhere to the distinction between loyalty to one's nation and loyalty to its government. Authentic patriotism involves a discerning approach, supporting our government when it acts justly. Never when it does not.

I liked these recent words from USA Today writer Rex Huppke: 

“In this rather pivotal moment in American history, how do we celebrate America – the right-now version of America – when democracy looks as fragile as a cracked sheet of thin ice over a warming pond?

“I imagine everyone will have a different answer, and I’m not here to claim I know best. But as a critic of Trump and all he has done to mangle this country and its sense of decency, I can share my form of Fourth of July patriotism.

“We can love this country and loathe the people in charge. We can be simultaneously proud of this country and embarrassed of the things being done in its name.  My America is welcoming, and just, and decent. And no two-bit con-artist president is going to take away my belief that these un-American actions can and will be stopped.”

Yes, perhaps right now it feels like our house is burning alongside our fireworks, but it’s still our house. Personally, this is the country where I was born, grew up, a country I want to help salvage for my children and grandchildren.

How do we accomplish that?

The amazing Anne Lamott had some ideas in her latest column: “Anyone paying close attention to the news might well ask themselves what on earth there is to celebrate this Fourth of July. But we must celebrate, or they win, in the paranoid sense of “they.” They want the day, but we can’t let them have it. Independence Day is America’s day. Sure, we bleeding-heart nervous cases are teetering on the edge of despair, but that is exactly why I am calling for us to move into a new phase of resistance: hope and joy. In ghastly times, these are subversive.

This Fourth of July, she proclaimed, “My friends and I will celebrate the land that embraces political marches and rallies, the ones so far and those still to come. This is “We the people,” and that is the ultimate and most profound aspect of America. We are going to keep showing up and talking about what needs to be done and what is possible right now. We give some money, if we can, to food banks, to a congressional candidate in a swing district, an immigrant rights organization, the ACLU and Project Hope. We steady ourselves for whatever the future might hold — left foot, right foot, left foot, breathe. Yes, things are god-awful in so many ways, maybe especially the dismantling of USAID, but we can’t go limp. This is what they want.” 

Lamott remembers George Carlin’s profession, “’There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.’ …  That night is now. We are the moon shining in the dark. We have begun to howl as one, as this new thing is getting itself born.” 

So, as this holiday weekend comes to a close, I am indeed celebrating July Fourth this year - and I am howling.

Howling out America the Beautiful, not the Star-Spangled Banner.

Howling a nuanced patriotism guided by reason and principle, rather than blind adherence.

Howling with subversive, unbridled, patriotic joy.

Because when we stop believing, we slowly lose our hope in humanity.

I hope you find your patriotism this year.  I’ve found mine.

 

June Respite From The Mayhem

In times like these, when it feels like we're walking a tightrope between uncertainty, upheaval, and outright insanity, it can be challenging to stay grounded in who we are, and more importantly, who we want to be. For this week's edition, 5 Women Mayhem is posting more of a photo essay, if you will, depicting what has helped us stay grounded in the swirling midst of Mayhem over the past month. 

Whether it's showing up for and with community, connecting with Nature, playing in the sprinkler with a silly dog, or listening to a good old country song, do what you need to do to be the "You" that you want to be, and don't let the Mayhem overshadow the joy and beauty in life. Deep breaths, Friends. We've got this.

Beautiful World" by Dierks Bentley

All the noise and the voices are screamin'
What they have to say

And the headlines and sound bytes are givin' me

Demons to hate

And the man on TV
He tells me it's ugly
But if you ask me
It's a beautiful world

There's tears and there's fears and there's losses and crosses to bear
And sometimes the best we can do is just to whisper a prayer
And press on because
There's so much to live for and so much to love
In this beautiful world

Say what you will but I still believe
It's a beautiful world

And I know 
I'm not dreamin'
I just choose to believe it
So I hate that I sometimes miss what's right in front of my eyes,
And I know at the end of my road I'll be wantin' more time
Just another sunset
One more kiss from my baby
A smile from a friend
In this beautiful world.

(You can listen to the song on YouTube by clicking on the title link above.)

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Looking for safety

By JoAnne Young

I have to tell you this, though I rather wish it wasn’t true. The man who is at the helm of our country, and the man in charge of the country of Israel, shifted my plans this weekend to write about an airier topic. But because I feel less safe today than I did on Friday, I feel compelled to talk about it. 

 

I have found that the more people I know and care about, the more important safety becomes ... theirs and my own. The more I learn about all the things that can go wrong in the world, the less stable I feel. Every morning I tell myself, I got through yesterday and last night. That’s all I’m sure of right now. And today I’m less sure of that, because the powers that be are less and less concerned about the people they “govern.” 

 

It's looking more and more like my country is going to join with Israel in the killing of a lot of people in the Middle Eastern country of Iran. The president, elected by 77.3 million American voters, 49.8% of the popular vote, is warning this weekend of tragedy for Iran, that many targets are left, targets that can be taken out in a “matter of minutes.” That will happen, he said, if the leader of Iran doesn’t opt for peace, doesn’t say, “OK, I give.” 

 

We can be pretty sure that won’t be the response. 

 

So what is there to do about this weekend’s news? One piece of advice from writer Anne Lamott was: “Today we just keep the patient comfortable.” I like that advice. Here is what has made me comfortable. 

I have no control over what these men who are the leaders of fighting countries have done or will do. I do have control over my own safety, and the safety of those people I directly encounter. For my part, this weekend I bought a new car with good safety features. It won't  affect world peace. It may sound frivolous. My hope is that it will calm me when I am on the road. My hope is that if I happen to wander out of my lane, or if some soul stops suddenly in front of me or runs a red light, I have some protection and so do they. 

When I was a teen, I didn’t think a lot about safety. My first car was a very used Renault Dauphine, built in the 60s. There wasn’t a safe bone in its blessed turquoise body. I soon learned that at any given left turn, the passenger side door could fly open. There were no seatbelts. My friends and I laughed about this possibility, even harder when it actually happened. 

 

I took chances, running out of gas far from my home, taking cross-country trips in shoddy cars, hitchhiking. I drove down dark wooded roads. I got stuck – alone – on muddy roads after midnight. 

 

Life has taught me well. I have learned first-hand and in other’s stories about the quick turns it can take. I recently read a book of essays and stories by Marina Keegan, who in 2012 wrote an essay for her Yale University commencement titled The Opposite of Loneliness. In it she wrote: “We’re so young. We’re twenty-two years old. We have so much time.” 

She was dead just days after her graduation. Going home to Cape Cod, her boyfriend, who was driving, fell asleep at the wheel, crossing two lanes and rolling the car. She died at the scene. 

 

Recently someone asked me what my plan was for my life going forward. My reply: One day at a time. I am fully aware of active shooters, icy sidewalks, hazardous weather, distracted drivers, and any number of illnesses that can sneak up on a person. 

 

I don’t plan to live in fear. I do plan to take note of exits wherever I am and whether exit doors push or pull. I will turn on lights so I can see where I’m walking. I’ll be aware that life can be unpredictable, wild, and uncomfortable. Mayhem does indeed fire up whether I expect it or not. 

 

I have said this before, and must keep reminding myself, that there is safety in our tiny circles of like-minded people where sanity, at least for short periods of time, abounds. Also, that we are in this together, whether we think alike or not. 

 

We’re all just trying to live, rest, repeat. May good forces be with us all. 

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