This morning, there were role reversals. I was driving Maria to see her doctor in Saratoga about an ear infection she’d had for most of the summer. Usually, I’m the one who gets driven. We take good care of one another. I hope to be back early this afternoon.
An Amish son hays the field across from the farm. I always appreciate seeing this.
Wildflower bouquet
Searching for wildflowers.
Tomorrow, Maria and I will pick up all the eyedrops I need for my two cataract surgeries. I’m not worried about the operation; they do it all the time, and people I know and trust are happy with it. I’m more concerned about the disruptions to my work, blog, and photographs. I’m not good at doing nothing. I’ll figure it out.
We’re getting our daily severe storm alerts again now. I’ve got to go check on the animals.
Maria is at her belly dancing class, and I hope she doesn’t get caught in a wicked storm. She can take care of herself.
Maria brought me a fantastic bouquet of wildflowers this morning.
I had the most wonderful time photographing them; they are so colorful, alive, and unpretentious. I hope you enjoy the pictures. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.
“I’m Sick And Tired Of Being Sick And Tired…” — Activist Fannie Lou Hamer.
Like Fanny Farmer, I am weary of Donald Trump’s relentless cruelty and politics in general. Both parties do it all the time. Politics is not about what people want; it’s mostly about who can tear the other apart quickly and thoroughly.
So far, Kamala Harris is trying something different, which is one reason so many people liked her instantly. That is a change if it lasts. I sure hope she means it.
Despite the possibility of his having some good ideas, Mr. Trump’s constant negativity and hatred – he does appear to be unraveling – make it difficult to see beyond his manner. Trying to comprehend what has attracted so many to him is frustrating, even as I know there has been a significant failure of the government to help many people in need – not only rich people in cities.
As we look towards the future, it’s clear that most of us want a leader who can at least try to bring us together and think positively.
While I can’t predict what Kamala Harris will do as President, I’m heartened by the enthusiasm and joy she brings to much of the country. You could hear the sigh of relief miles and miles away.
Trump’s vicious attacks on her are the rantings of an unhealthy person.
Her ability to unite us, even some of us, even momentarily, is a much-needed breath of desperately needed fresh air in our sadly divided nation.
As a former TV producer, I can’t help but notice the power of appearance in politics. It’s best if you look good to succeed; our world lives on imagery, not substance. People tend to like who the camera likes.
The camera likes Kamala Harris, while it seems to have turned away from Mr. Trump and the squirrel-like figure that used to sit atop his head. Trump looks old, angry, and strange. The hair has gone from orange to white. He can’t fake it anymore.
The real Trump opens like an onion. It isn’t pretty.
It doesn’t bother his very loyal fans, but he needs more people than that to win. He immediately set out to alienate almost everyone he needs to win.
Ever Trump.
In America, how we look is a big deal. When I rounded 70, young people stopped seeing me altogether.
Most people don’t just listen to what a candidate says; they pay much more attention to their appearance and vibe. That is the nature of our times, another gift from the Internet, a profoundly visual medium when all is said and done.
Donald Trump, like me, is shuffling up to 80. You can’t hide that. I can testify to it. I’m still surprised when I look in a mirror and wonder who is in my bathroom staring at me in shock.
How sad that Trump and Biden, two aging men who seemed to hate one another, are suffering the same fate. Neither has yet realized they are past their time and can’t muster the grace to step aside gracefully. How awful to end one’s life in that way.
I don’t like the new Joe Biden that I met recently. Like his opponent, he was bristling with self-pity, self-interest, and a refusal to accept the reality of his life, something that was obvious to everyone, including me, and I am nearly his age.
Biden is said to be still bitter about getting pushed out of office. Has he noticed how happy the country seems since he dropped out?
Has Donald Trump noticed yet that he needs more time and place? He is no longer the change everyone wanted but the nasty old man millions of people are getting sick of. He’s become the next Joe Biden, facing an opponent who is the candidate for change.
Politics, like life, is always amazing and never really makes sense.
Historically, Americans have consistently voted for change when given a choice, perhaps because we are a restless country, easily bored and impatient.
Both of these old lions are finished; their time is past.
As a 77-year-old man, I give thanks that my faith and awareness have at least guided me to know who I am and where I am. My goal is to accept this with grace and pad aside. Soon enough, life will do that for me.
Biden and Trump could do many essential things in their remaining time; being President of the United States is one of many things we older men can choose to do. I’m doing more new things than ever and loving the freedom and knowledge I have collected. I can’t imagine a more horrible job than being President of the United States.
I would have to be a crazy older man – crazier than I am – to want it. And I don’t even play golf.
Donald Trump is like Joe Biden and me now—aging white men who can’t remember where they put their glasses or iPhones. But I am different. I am a happy old man. In fact, being happy is my work now. I’ve earned the right.
I love my wife, work, photography, and farm. I have much to live for and will take it without whining, complaining, or getting in the way.
My grandmother taught me not to lie, and my mother taught me not to whine, so I can’t get behind Donald Trump or our distasteful political culture. And I would be sad to be as blind and oblivious as the President.
We are a great, not a dark and festering country. How nice to have a leader who believed that our country is excellent, not something that had to be great again. I’m strange that way. I love our country for all of its troubles.
I won’t argue with anyone about politics, certainly not online; it’s my decision, not anyone else’s business. I love the new calling cry of Governor Walz: “Mind Your Own Damn Business.” I think that almost every time I look at my e-mail or messages.
But for me, the story is more significant than that, more important than either of the presidential candidates.
I might be going down the Biden trail, but my doctors tell me my mind is quite good despite the evident and occasional memory loss. I have believed for some time now that my country, which I love very much, has had enough of anger and hatred and whining and grievance. This whining is a pandemic that has spread throughout the country.
We have become a nation of whiners and haters; we blame everyone for our troubles but ourselves, and we call this conservatism. People who saw enemies lurking around every corner used to be called paranoid; now, billionaires give them millions of dollars to spread hateful ideas and keep us fighting with one another.
I believe the tide is turning.
If I am sick of being sick and tired, women all over the country are sick of old white men telling them what to do, how to live, and how to have children and raise them. They will shape our future, along with the young people awakening to their troubled future.
They will decide this election – women, black people, young people, people like me, people who live in the middle, not on the edges.
This year, women all over the country will give the white nationalists and the crypto fascist fake Christians a good thumping and push them back into their caves and conspiracies and plots.
That means you, JD, might regret choosing to be their leader. Really? Women who don’t have children can’t contribute enough to their country? Wow.
Mussolini time. It’s not Christian Nationalist time.
The Compassion Revolution brings back the idea that immigrants are not rapists, scum, and murderers as a rule. Of course we need to control the border, that can be done (and will be, I bet) without sticking a million people into concentration camps or rounding them all up for deportation. I wonder who will pay for that?
There is a more compassionate and empathetic way to do this; immigration is as American as red, white, and blue. Immigrants have done and are doing a lot for our country, including much of the dirty work Americans no longer wish to do.
When I saw all the singing, dancing, and cheering that followed Kamala Harris around, I prayed she was worth it and would not betray the joy as so many of her predecessors have. I could feel the hunger for peace, happiness, and empathy in those rallies; they were not about politics.
They were about hope, joy, and a possible end to the grim and awful years where half the country learned to hate the other half and call it politics. I love that this dour time may end, and something better is coming: a kindler and gentler country.
I don’t care what the pundits say; I feel it coming. I stand by the prediction. Stranger things have happened; look at the news.
Lies travel quickly, but love always triumphs in the end. Love is the most incredible power on the planet. I’ve never seen a hateful person smile; I’ve never seen a loving one hate.
To me, those rallies were only incidentally about Kamala Harris; they were also about our exhaustion with cruelty and name-calling and male domination and bigotry and ignorance. The grumpy old white men are finished, as is their leader.
Perhaps we are finally crawling out of that tunnel and into the light.
Given a fighting chance, I’m pushing for the Compassion Revolution, about how Americans used to feel and how most humans would like to feel.
Emma sent me another of her beautiful photographs of my granddaughter Robin as she grew up. She’s just about to be eight. I’m very grateful for these pictures.
I found my role as a grandfather – undercutting her parents and sending her books they might not like her to get (nothing nasty, just weird.) “I’m going to undermine you,” I said. “Yes, I know,” she said. Robin likes most of the books very much. They are reading Greek Philosophy. I sent a graphic novel about a dragon who farts a lot.
Nothing violent.
It’s another beautiful, misty morning. The sun was lovely when it decided to break out. Maria is out picking wildflowers, Zinnia is close by, the animals are grazing, and the garden bed is beautiful. I’m staying home all day to write, rest, and prepare for my cataract surgery. We had an extraordinary Zoom meeting, and we might add one more blog reader to the Zoom.
