His soul is with the universe now

He belongs to us all

I didn’t know what to expect when I opened the door to my dad’s room.

Was he even still with us? Monday he never even opened his eyes, seemingly unconscious to the world. Tuesday he recognized and even talked with us, though it was very rudimentary. My brother fed him applesauce and dad enjoyed every bite.

But this morning is one of those moments where you just hope the planets align.

My daughter’s family flew in from Chicago the afternoon before. Her son, Charlie, named for my dad, is four months old and hasn’t yet met his namesake.

This is that moment.

There is a picture in my baby book of my mother’s father holding me when I was just a couple months old. He lived in New York and visited his daughter’s family in Oregon just this once before he passed away. I never knew him, and from some whispered family stories, that’s probably okay.

The meeting meant nothing to me, and I have no memory of it.

But 35 years ago, as my grandmother lay in bed at the end of her 93 years, my sister brought in her infant son. The meeting stirred her to life, and that intangible moment of ephemeral bonding lasts to this day.

My daughter planned this trip home a couple of months ago. Little Charlie had a tough start and they needed to wait until he was good and strong, and vaccinated, to travel on a plane. We didn’t think dad would last through June given his decline, but he rallied and held on, asking frequently about Charlie. Pictures of Charlie always lit up his face. He would carry a picture with him and show his nurses and support staff.

We would tell him Charlie was coming in August and he would look away, silent, assuming he wouldn’t be around.

A week ago, dad fell from his chair. He probably broke something as any movement is painful. He’s been in bed ever since, sinking and rallying on his own schedule.

My friend, Kathy, calls it an emotional footrace, and she went through the same thing with her dad, David. David and my dad were great friends, community and church leaders, for over 60 years. Kathy’s brother was flying home to be with the family as their father passed, but after a long day of traveling, he missed it by about an hour.

I don’t know what’s going on in my dad’s mind now. I don’t know how he hears or processes information. He made it very clear a few days ago that he loves us, and repeated that he has a very “special family.” Now he is largely silent, but I understand that he likely hears us, and probably understands us.

So on this morning, my daughter, son in law, and little Charlie enter the room. I put my hand on dad’s shoulder and gently rouse him. His eyes open a slit, unfocused and somewhat lost.

We talk to him. We hold Charlie in front. I believe I could see the moment he recognizes my daughter, and then “sees” Charlie. His eyes widen just a bit. His hand lifts off his chest towards Charlie’s foot. He can’t quite find it so I help, and he loosely holds Charlie’s chubby little heel before his hand falls back to his chest.

This was painful, and beautiful. But what I hadn’t thought enough about was how this moment would be for my daughter.

Living far away for 16 years now, she’s seen the stop-motion aging that twice yearly visits emphasize. And this visit now is a stark change from Christmas.

The moment lingered a bit before my dad’s eyes closed. We talked to him, loudly, reiterating how glad we were to see him and how much we love him.

But it was breaking my daughter, which broke me.

Life is so hard, so sweet, so tender, and so fragile.

This moment may have been permission for dad to let go, or it might be reason to rally again. Or maybe it didn’t register.

I think it registered. It certainly mattered, especially to my daughter and me. Dad will soon be gone, and Charlie will only see the picture.

But those eyes - his eyes - crusted and un-use to the light, squinting and analyzing and recognizing, were the moment.

That’s life.

The bookends of life.

Our barn.

I’m sad that the vast majority of people grow up without access to a barn. It is the ultimate all-weather playground for a kid.

It was there I had one of my first concussions, learned about the facts of life (not what you think, though I did find one of my brother’s Playboys up there - thanks bro), spent nights with friends, built forts, had rotten egg fights, and, well, it’s a long list.

The barn on our farm in rural Linn County, Oregon, was a proper red one. When we moved there in 1966 (I was 3), it was white. But the lap-board siding was full of knot holes and not so good at keeping hay dry. My dad soon clad it in T-111, painted it red, and applied a tin roof. It was ready for another 60 years.

The post-and-beam construction used old-growth Douglas fir logs that were large and tight-grained. Sixty years of sheltering cattle and sheep had left the flooring and many posts polished and smooth.

When we first moved there, the only way to the hayloft was up a ladder of 1/2” boards nailed to the rough-cut 2x4’s framing the manger wall. The loft was full of loose straw next to some bailed hay and one of my first memories was all four of us kids somersaulting into the fluffy straw.

I’ve often joked about writing a book entitled, “I should be dead by now,” and the barn is one reason.

That hayloft was so fun that my three-year-old self slipped out of the house without mom’s notice, walked (toddled?) the 100 yards to the barn, and began the climb up that old ladder to play in the hay.

I recall it vividly. I got clear to the top. I lacked the long arms to hoist myself in, so I tried to force my small fingers between the top board of the ladder and the hay-polished loft floor. I took one more step up, and recall how my fingers wouldn’t stay in that thin slot as my center of gravity shifted out. I tipped back scrambling for a hand hold, and fell eight feet to the stable floor, flat on my back, I presume.

I knocked myself out. I eventually wandered back to the house dizzy and crying.

My poor mother. I’m not sure she ever got used to me knocking myself out.

The good news is the event prompted my dad to build a proper stairway to the loft, so the adventures could really begin.

At 1 am one cold night the next winter, mom came and got me out of bed and carried me up to the hayloft where the rest of the family was already seated for the main event. There we sat looking down on the stable as a big heifer was giving birth.

This is the “birds and the bees” talk, farm style.

Mom was excitedly narrating the whole event. “Those are the front hooves just poking out! Don’t worry about the blood - that’s normal, she noted. I was just tired and wanted to sleep.

Whether or not I equated a calf’s birth with how babies were made was later undermined by my ever-helpful older brother. Upon me asking the big question to clarify the process, he explained that “when a man kisses a woman, a seed goes down her throat and into her tummy and makes a baby.”

Which made me terrified when Grandma Henry came at me asking for a kiss. But I digress…

Anyway, we soon figured out how much fun it was to build forts in the hay by stacking bales to make walls, then laying boards across the top and more hay for a roof.

These old barns had a steel rail, called a hay rail, suspended down the middle of the inside roof peak for a cast iron trolly with pulleys that was used to load loose hay into the loft. The trolley rode the rail from one end to the other, and several feet outside the barn through a big opening in the upper back wall. We never used it for loading hay because it was all bailed up by the time we came along.

But if you climbed another ladder to the inside top, grabbed the trolley and pushed off, you could glide clear to the other side of the barn. Usually. And in your underwear, at least during one sleepover.

Seeing Wayne in his tidy whiteys soaring across the barn is burned into my childhood memories.

We also tied a rope to the rail so we could swing around from stack to stack or jump into loose hay. I had a pretty good Tarzan yell - ask Brian or Rod.

We had youth group sleepovers, friend sleep-overs, Halloween parties, and my 8th Grade “Graduation” party in the barn. A little cray paper, some balloons, and an old record player gave it quite a festive atmosphere.

My brother was a very entrepreneurial high school FFA member, and at one point had upwards of 30 Suffolk sheep as his project. The barn was the center of that universe as well. We would bring the newborn lambs in from the winter cold, and pen them up under heat lamps with the ewes.

Some required supplemental feeding from a bottle, which was quite fun. I had several “bummer lambs” over the years - lambs rejected by their mother that we’d then raise by hand.

I learned to give shots, dock tails, and castrate the little rams.  (If I had any misunderstandings about birds and bees, they were resolved by then.)

We had horses for a while, which shared the barn with the cows and sheep. I enjoyed one small Shetland pony named “Lucky.”  I’d lead him to the far end of the pasture, climb the fence so I could jump on bareback, and then he’d race back to the barn.

I only failed to duck the first time he entered the barn. No concussion, but lesson learned.

Lucky and I had a complicated relationship. We had fun, but he also taught me to never run up behind a horse. I did that - just once - and his rear right hoof caught me square in the gut and flipped me end over end. I sucked wind for 10 minutes before my sister helped me crawl back to the house.

The barn had a high back wall hidden from the house. I literally engaged in many a pissing contest with the neighborhood boys on that wall. I don’t recall if I won or not, but I had a lot more pressure back then than I do now. Stupid prostate.

To this day I have many dreams about that barn. It’s generally been modified in my dreams, or has been neglected and I’m trying to return it to its functional glory.

We had many adventures on the farm. The tree house in the big birch by the creek was fun, but there is a concussion story there as well. The line of tall fir trees along the road was also a grand playground. My mother was mortified when I proudly pointed out the American flag I wired to the very top of the tallest tree one July 4th.

The creek - or crick, depending on context - was fun also. My friends and I would spend a whole day building a dam across it, then build a small city downstream, and look for crawdads in the de-watered creek bed. We’d then burst the dam and watch the cities get flooded. All this was pre-Calvin and Hobbes, by the way.

Invariably we ended up back in the barn to swing on the ropes and jump in the hay.

I only lived on the farm for 18 years or so, but that’s a lifetime when growing up. My dad sold the farm in 1989 and moved into town where he eventually became mayor. I was starting a career and a family by then. My mother had passed away, my dad remarried, and we were all to moving on.

So many friends, so much fun, mixed with days of hard work, more concussions, and a few things I shall never write about. It shaped me in so many ways.

Except for the concussions, a few rusty nails, and some other painful experiences, I wish more people had the opportunity to grow up with a barn at their disposal.

I think the world would be a better place.

I’m surrounded by the equipment of a hospice patient “transitioning” from life to death. The oxygen accumulator, with its methodical “pu-poof,” is the soundtrack of the evening.

I don’t know what to say or think, and when I try to manufacture something - well, my composure wanes, shall we say. I just keep my mouth closed.

He startles me with a cough. His eyes open and he sees me, but I’m not sure he knows it’s me.  Then he raises his right hand and gives me a thumbs-up, and reaches for my hand.

We hold tightly. His eyes close again, his grip loosens, and he’s back at rest.

A silent exchange between father and son.

For someone who writes, I’m a terrible conversationalist. I don’t like prying. I don’t like asking random questions that I’ll probably forget the answers to immediately. I really don’t like idle speculation because it just seems like a waste of breath.

I kill a lot of conversations with “I don’t know.” But I am okay talking about the weather. Always good with that.

Even as a kid, I remember times my dad and I would be driving somewhere and he’d put his hand on my knee and ask me questions about my day.

My answers were often short - generally along the lines of “I dunno,” unless there was something specifically of interest.

I’ve gotten better as I’ve aged. I’ve enjoyed his stories of growing up in Washington and Oregon, his great grandmother who came to Oregon on the wagon trains, and his hunting and fishing stories. He once showed me where he was when his mother rounded up her three boys who were cutting wood on the Woodburn farm to “come listen to the radio. Something bad is happening.” That day was December 7, 1941.

As a salesman, there is not an inch of the northwest dad hasn’t driven. Every road is a new story. Driving with him was always an adventure.

But I’ll be honest. I didn’t like my dad much when I was a teenager. He was bossy, overbearing, and made us work hard on the farm on days that were too hot, too wet, or too cold.

He made me return a new tennis racquet because he thought $60 was too much. He was too focused on the farm and the job sometimes. We were too busy for many vacations.

But as the old saying goes, the older I got, the smarter he got.

I came to see and appreciate the common brilliance of a man with some rough edges, a slight temper, but enough love to guide our cantankerous family through tragedies, challenges, grandkids, life, and even death.

I have realized these last few years how very different each of my siblings’ relationships are with my dad. We all had our own bones to pick with him. When I hear some of their memories or descriptions of events, I sometimes wonder who they’re talking about.

I guess that means he’s complex. He has nuance. He has some weaknesses, and some amazing strengths.

He’s “complicated.” Aren’t we all?

It’s almost dark now. He lies quietly in his bed, comfortable and silent except for the occasional, unintelligible word.

He is moving on. Steps by step, breath by breath, providing guidance even as he fades away.

He guided us the best he could, this 97 year old man, a father of 70 years, the husband who outlived three wives.  He fought a war, built a life, lead a community, and shared his faith.

He loved us all, and lived his life with rare dignity and purpose.

My 30 minute trek home is a glorious sunset over freshly harvested fields. It’s an ending full of color and wonder.

Like his life, it’s beautiful.

It seems selfish. It seems cold.

But my nephew and his wife have a day available, and the weather is looking okay.

My dad would approve, I think.

Family first. Make the memories. Spend the time. Share some love.

Back in early November of 1982, my mother was awaiting her own death. She had been treated for colon cancer three years early but it metastasized to her lungs and lymph system.

That was a rough month. Despite needing oxygen and a wheelchair, she made the hourlong trip to Corvallis for my performance in the University Choir my sophomore year of college. Her presence was such a sacrifice on her part, and I was so humbled that she made the trip.

A week or so later, as the rain poured down in a very wet week before Thanksgiving, she urged my dad to take my older brother hunting. Dad wanted to stay by her side, but she urged him to spend some time with their oldest child.

So off they went, for what back then was called an “agricultural hunt” to remove some deer from a farmer’s field.

My dad was not feeling well and was hit with a bout of diarrhea in the midst of the hunt. He found a tree near the truck and “let it go.”

At dusk my brother came out of the field, soaked and miserable, and empty handed.

He climbed in the truck’s passenger seat and stripped off his wet boots and soaked jeans.

And of course, that’s when the deer showed up on the edge of the field.

So my brother jumped out in his long underwear and socks, and took a position near the truck under a tree, and knelt down to take a shot.

It was the very spot my father had emptied his bowels a short time earlier, and my brother recognized it immediately.

They drove home with the windows open.

My mother passed a week later after a raw and profound Thanksgiving, and a deathbed lecture where she outlined our idiosyncrasies and her hopes for the family in her absence.

“It’s the memories down the road of life that bring the roses in December,” she told us the day before she passed.

I visited my dad yesterday. He was lucid and comfortable, except for the deep, wet cough from the congestive heart failure. He smiled at the description of his grandchildren’s activities and a recent fishing trip.

But in just a few minutes, his eyes closed and he told me to go home and take a nap.

The look on his face was utter concentration, like someone trying to force sleep at 1 a.m. when it’s not coming naturally.

My mother’s birthday was today. My grandson, Charlie - named for my dad - is coming for a first visit from Chicago in two weeks. Each event has meaning. Will dad pass on his wife’s birthday? Will he see is second great grandchild who is named for him? Will I be at his side, or doing yard work, or on the boat, or sleeping?

Life moves along at its own pace. The planet does not stop so someone can get off. We honor our loved ones by spending time at their side, as well as by living our lives, and honoring their legacy by sharing our lives with each other.

Because that’s what my folks want us to do. That’s where memories are made.

Even the ridiculous ones.

I have to talk loudly, slowly, with clear enunciation, and maybe he’ll understand.

His hair is askew, and he’s in his pajamas and slippers. At one point, staring off over my shoulder, he quietly utters, “It’s a tedious existence.”

I know he doesn’t mean his life. He has talked proudly about how blessed he is and all the adventures he’s had. He’s been well-honored over the years for his military and civic service.

And his family loves him, blemishes and all.

By “tedious,” he simply means this stage of life where the senses are dulled and muscles don’t work. The heart struggles to supply the blood that keeps him alert and functional.

The future is gone. The past is increasingly hard to recall.

So I pull out my phone and show him pictures of his two grandkids. He smiles broadly.

Score!

Lunch finished, I wheel him outside. It’s 86°, with an overcast sky of smoke from nearby wildfires. The sky is extremely bright and has a bit of an orange hue from the smoke.

“This heat,” he says.” It feels good. It’s heavy. I can feel it on my shoulders.”

“Do you want to go in,” I ask? He shakes his head. So we sit. Then he falls asleep.

In the distance is Snow Peak, a local landmark where Dad and I made memories decades earlier during an elk hunt. A place we hiked and, once as a young kid, he took my sister and I fishing at a small lake called “Indian Prairie.”

I look at him asleep in his chair and see two people. The much younger and vibrant man who raised a family of four, and an old man waiting to die.

We are silent for an hour as he naps in the warmth.

Then I wheel him back to his room and awkwardly slide him into his recliner. Almost instantly his eyes close and he’s back to sleep.

Not much needs saying at this point. Not much can be said.

I leave him with a quiet “I love you dad. See you soon.”

He doesn’t hear, but I know he knows it.

It’s a long and silent goodbye.

It’s 98° outside. I can’t really go anywhere significant because I need to be on hand for my dad, who is 97 and on hospice, nearing the end. Yes, my brother is doing a lot here as well. It’s a team gig, this elder care thing, but that doesn’t make it easy.

I am utterly befuddled at to how our country has decided to enroll itself in hospice as well. There are similarities.

At 97, my dad has been around for more than one-third of this country’s nationhood. He’s now turned away from the national news because it’s utterly depressing.

And I have as well.

For a year now, Substack has been a “peak behind the curtain,” full of people asking hard questions and publishing news that is possible to ignore.

Except it doesn’t seem to matter.

My perspective certainly doesn’t matter, although I will be the first to say that my year of writing has been for me, not for the reader.

Call me a narcissist. But not a malignant one, please.

I’m indebted to the brave folks who track down the details and truths that should provide the evidence we need to hit the brakes, find reverse, and look for the off-ramp we missed 18 months ago.

Maybe because of them, we’re not heading towards the 1000 foot cliff at breakneck speed. I hope not.

The midterms will tell.

But mentally, I’m broken. I’ve picked a few news sources I trust, and I’ve dumped the rest.

All that time and energy to be fully aware of every transgression, lie, violent act, racist trope, or misogynist policy has, at this moment in my life, left me lifeless.

I’ve taken breaks from social media before, but I’ve no more f-cks to give.

I don’t need to read anything to become even more convinced at how evil the regime is. There is nothing to be done to make me more angry.

My outrage meter peaked a while ago, and then burned out. And exploded.

So my apologies. I’m inward facing for a bit. How long I don’t know.

Maybe an hour, a day, or a month.

And it lets people down, and I’m sorry.

I will continue to protest, write letters, send money, and vote.

Is that giving in? Is it caving? Does Stephen Miller win?

No. I’m just on leave for a while. Time to let the mental health rest and repair.

Time for a beer. Just one. And some time with the grandkids, the dogs, and my boat.

Enjoy a hot July.

And yet, while sitting there on the exam table whining about my eyes, sinuses, throat, plugged ears, etc., she announced that I didn’t appear to have any bacterial infections.

I’ve never been good at puppy eyes, but I gave it my best shot, even as red and swollen as they were.

Then she said the magic words: “But I can tell you’re on the edge of infection, and it’s Friday, so I’ll call in a prescription. Only use it if things get worse.”

That was 2 pm on Friday. An hour later I sneezed blood and opted for the antibiotics.

On Saturday, my wife made a delicious vegetable barley soup for dinner that was basically a tasty, soul-satisfying cure-all right up there with penicillin. By 7 pm Saturday, I was sitting at the fire pit playing my fiddle.

I didn’t necessarily feel great, but I could see it from there and it looked good. The fog dispersed. The brain craved cheer.

Now to be fair, there is a hell of a lot that’s wrong in the world that I’ve kind of checked out of the last few weeks. As I poke my nose back in, here are some games being played, and their historical analogs:

• Where’s Waldo: The latest version is “Where’s Mitch,” and it’s weird because at least with the kids’ book, we knew Waldo was alive.

• Whack-A-Mole: Just when Todd Blanche thinks he’s quashed the Epstein Files for good, their vile corruption pops up somewhere else in our public consciousness. We need to push our senators HARD to not confirm this soulless human next week.

• The Dating Game: Trump alternately tries to man-hug Iran and then kill as many as possible. This is closely related to the “Cease Fire Bingo” game, and also the next item on my list.

• Beer Pong: Which leads to the new drinking game where everybody who has a gasoline-powered car drinks heavily each time the Strait of Hormuz closes down. 150 million livers hang in the balance.

• Operation: Which sport will Trump kill or maim by clumsily trying to remove a kidney or fix some other condition? Team USA soccer had a lose-lose problem the moment Trump stepped in to help. This also applies to America 250, a perfectly healthy patient he killed by ripping its heart out.

Of course, none of this is funny, and none of it is a game. Like during my cold, I was impatient to feel better. I managed my symptoms, got plenty of rest, avoided doing more damage, and got professional help when needed. Odd that this mirrors my political strategy as well.

Tonight will be better than last night. Antibiotics, soup, and music will see to that.

Fixing this country is more complicated, but basically the same.

I started thinking about how under-appreciated the summer cold virus is.

It’s not one of those wimpy winter viruses that spread in kindergartens or workplaces where people share germs like breath mints

The summer rhinovirus is built for travel. It has to survive drifting across wide expanses like a pollen speck in search of just the right kind of blossom.

The one that found me came equipped with all kinds of advanced weaponry. The spiky little guy immediately deployed stakes in the surrounding membrane to be fully secured. It then put out flags claiming the domain for Queen Ida.

Once a defensive perimeter was established around “Throat Base Alpha”, it began deploying expeditionary squads to secondary bases in my lungs, larynx, sinuses, eustachian tubes, and tear ducts.

It was clear the primary base was in my throat as it just keeps being sore, even six days in. So far, it’s staying viral, but I’m probably a hair’s breadth from a nuclear bacterial arsenal getting deployed.

And that’s the point my head will just explode.

I was supposed to be fishing last weekend. I launched my boat Thursday night but it had a jammed shift-thingy, so I un-launched it. I was wracked with disappointment as I’d spent many hours getting her ready for ocean fishing, and now I’m stuck.

So waking up the next morning with a sore throat just seemed poetic.

On Monday, feeling sort of better, I replaced the front brakes on my truck. Hindsight says I should never do mechanical work when saturated with pharmaceuticals. (I’m pretty sure that’s why that shifty-thing jammed - muscle relaxers and shaft alignments are an unsafe combination.) Anyway, it was hot, I got dehydrated and tired, and the foreign invaders of my upper respiratory system decided it was a good time to start assaulting further up-country.

I woke up Tuesday with my eyes glued shut. Viral conjunctivitis.

But I’m stubborn, so I took a hot shower, unpacked my eyeballs, hopped in the truck - the one with new front brakes - and drove 90 minutes to deliver the jammed part of my boat to a mechanic who can unjam it.

I felt reasonably good. As I drove away from the service center, I prayed to the boat gods for a cheap fix.

That’s when I noticed the smoke rolling out from the passenger-side front wheel well.

All I could do was laugh.

So I pulled into Les Schwab Tire Centers, home of “sudden service.” Four hours and $879 later, i was headed toward home.

(Note: I could have replaced the calipers myself for about $200. I’m now sick AND broke. Yea for me.)

This reminds me that I don’t just live in the world, I am an integral part of it. Many organisms rely on me to survive - the billions of bacteria in my gut, the tiny mites that only live in the pores of the human forehead, the spiky little viruses building civilizations in my admittedly large nose, and of course boat mechanics and tire dealers.

I would rather be fishing. Hell, I’d rather shoveling cow poop in a dairy barn.

On the bright side, if the boat’s gonna be broke, I might as well be broke, too. Two birds with one stone, I guess.

Happy summer folks. Don’t let the annoying little buggers get you down.

Maybe I can fall asleep now.

You see, my birthday is July 5. I was expected on the fourth, but it just wouldn’t happen. So my dad took the family for a boat ride on a local reservoir on July 4, and that got things moving.

The doctor was a little annoyed.

Every July 4 growing up was a party. Fireworks at the high school ball field, smoke bombs and sparklers, barbecues, hand-churned ice cream, cousins, aunts and uncles, the whole package.

One year I hit the jackpot. Oregon’s fireworks were heavily restricted in the ‘70s, though we did the best we could. Then in about 1973 or so we did a big trip in the ol’ family wagon to Colorado. I snagged a brick of 500 firecrackers in Wyoming and thought I’d won the lottery.

Once we got back home, I had roughly 500 experiments to conduct. I found that small apples with a firecracker stuffed in them made a good boom when lit and thrown.

Fireworks lit and thrown into an irrigation pipe were particularly satisfying.

My plastic airplane models I’d painstakingly built were soon all gloriously destroyed.

I was building balsa and tissue rubber powered airplanes at the time. I’d put a few of the firecrackers into the wings and fuselage, wind it up, light the fuses and tissue, and it was world-class special-effect catastrophes to make Steven Spielberg proud.

We had a herd of banty chickens on the farm. They’d lay eggs and forget about them. They made especially good, stinky improvised explosive devises as well.

The point is I savored every single one of those little things and never once hurt my self, though my tinnitus may have its roots in that summer.

I was 12 for the Bicentennial (almost 13) and remember well the “You Were There” historical shorts on network TV, and my whole family went to Portland for the stage play 1776.

I learned a lot about swearing at that one.

When my kids were young, we lived in a kid-heavy neighborhood and had some great cul de sac fireworks shows. I recall letting my son light his first fountain of sparks.

I was so proud!

Anyway, there’s a slice of my life that brings me to today. I turn 63 in two days. I am not happy about our national direction, but maybe we need to think about July 4 as much about our future as our past.

Let’s not let others define that which we built. Let’s not sulk in the shadows.

Let’s light some fireworks.

Happy Independence Day, America. We survive despite “them,” just as we did 250 years ago.

It’s a lot more complicated than that. I’m “red deficient,” clinically called “protanomaly.“ When I look at a field of magenta crimson clover, it’s basically an off-hue green. I barely notice it.

I quite literally could never be a licensed electrician (all those color-coded wires), though I try like heck to do all my own wiring. I always wanted to be a pilot but could not pass the vision test.

In Kindergarten, I recall being the last out for recess when the teacher would excuse the class by having them name the colored dot over their jackets. Red and orange got me every time. I just thought I was stupid.

My wife won’t let me do the laundry ever since I turned her white cashmere sweater pink, and then couldn’t see the stains she was talking about.

So it’s not a total loss.

My first grade teacher Mrs. Lee figured it out. I got tested and labeled and the fun began. As soon as I’d mention it, kids would point at their shirt and ask “what color is this?”

How the hell would I know?

So when I read a quote from Jonathon Berry, now solicitor for Trump’s Labor Department, I knew what game he was playing.

“The goal here is to move toward colorblindness and to recognize that we need to have laws and policies that treat people like full human beings not reducible to categories, especially when it comes to race.” As part of that effort, the Trump regime has buried any racial reporting as part of their anti-DEI agenda.

It made the news again because a shareholder group is suing the regime for DEI data because it’s a measure many shareholders want to see and it links with certain productivity measures.

The problem with hiding the data means you’re functionally flying cover for discriminatory institutions.

I was raised in rural Oregon where you could count the people of color you saw each year on one hand. Back then, the term “colorblind” was used if you could successfully ignore a person’s race.

Back then, I thought it was a good thing.

But just like my color deficiency has taught me, it’s not.

Geneticists say that this deficiency is probably more of a survival mechanism in some populations of nomadic hunter/gatherers because it somehow improved capability to survive in a hostile landscape.

Not sure I buy that. As a hunter, following a blood trail through a forest is absolutely impossible for me.

But I digress.

I now recognize that being colorblind doesn’t mean you treat people who have more melanin the same. It means you don’t notice, or refuse to notice, how disparately they are treated.

It becomes a convenient excuse to ignore not just their color, but their life story, their heritage, the way they’ve been treated, or the way we treat them now.

Being colorblind, there are things I simply can’t do. There are things I can’t see. Like that pink blotch on my wife’s cashmere sweater. It’s not that I was ignoring it. Instead, I simply lacked the ability to SEE it.

I don’t like marking down my race when I do a survey. It feels intrusive. I’m also white which means it’s a whole lot less of a loaded question for me than for others.

But I answer because I know, if it’s done for the right reasons, it enables us to see the landscape as it is, not how we want to see it. Not how we CHOOSE to see it.

It’s hard to trust any data gathered under this administration. As willing as they are to lie and obfuscate, we don’t know what has value and what doesn’t.

But in a world where too many people and too many institutions default to, at the very least, passive discrimination (if that is a thing), we need data to see the full spectrum.

When I was wiring the boat I built, some of the wiring was very complex. I found a handy little app I could point at the wire and it would tell me the color. It prevented mistakes and helped me get it right.

It prevented me from potentially causing a catastrophic fire.

We could learn from that.

To my son: You are an inspiration to me. Up at 4 am daily to report to the Air Guard unit you serve. You are such a wonderful and loving father. Your family always comes first. You have a rare sense of honor, honesty, and dedication. I miss the days where we could have our own crazy “adventures”, but I love that you’re off this weekend on one of your own with your young family, making new memories that will likewise shape your son.

To my son-in-law: Watching you these last two months shows what a great partner you are to my daughter. You’ve been through a lot more than most new fathers in the last eight weeks. You deserve all the love and joy that is developing within your new family. Your son is a beautiful new life wrapped securely in your love and grace. I am proud to call you my son-in-law.

To my father: At 97, you’ve lived a life I will never achieve, either in length or stature. I’ve watched you change from pragmatic farmer and business man to church and community leader to doting grandfather to elder statesman. You have been loving, dependable, supportive, and generous. Even as you prepare for what’s coming, your compassion and positivity are something I can only hope to live up to.

The common thread in all these men is commitment to their families, dedication to their communities, and compassion for others.

There are many good people in the world. It’s an honor to live among them.

True, it feels like wasted effort sometimes, especially with the current administration. It can feel that way anytime large bureaucracies are involved.

But it’s not wasted effort, and here is one win as reported in the Guardian: Trump administration reverses decision to scrap ocean monitoring system

This regime doesn’t just throw things at the wall to see what sticks. They throw everything at the wall, mostly to watch them break. When the collective outcry exceeds their willingness to fight, they cave. The more central their action is to implementing a white Christian nationalist oligarchy, the harder it is to fight them.

But a win is a win.

I spend a lot of time on the ocean in a boat I built from scratch, sometimes 50 miles out. On some days, I may be in the midst of a hundred other boats, including commercial salmon trollers and other operators.

The community of Newport Oregon is the west coast headquarters of NOAA with several research vessels operating from the port. The fishing fleet, NOAA, and the US Coast Guard are the very fabric of that community.

And irresponsible actions like tearing out a groundbreaking ocean monitoring system speaks volumes about how much this regime cares about the actual people who have built their lives in our coastal communities.

I won’t even go into how important decades of state, federal, and university geological research has been in preparing the west coast for the predicted 9.0 Cascadia Subduction Zone earthquake. Millions of lives could be saved by that research. The research done over the decades is quite literally the same sorts of scientific research this administration sees as superfluous government waste.

Trump has made it clear he likes to manage “from the gut.” I will resist the temptation to comment on the size of that gut.

Is that a successful strategy for him? For us? We have many examples that it is not. Whether it’s the war with Iran or hiring a buddy to paint the reflecting pool blue, the results speak for themselves.

So why the reversal on their effort to tear out an ocean monitoring system at its halfway point? Because people saw immediately how damaging it was to communities and businesses and people who rely on government-funded science to help keep them safe and inform their world.

People called, wrote letters, complained to Congress. They fought back.

The regime’s action had direct and tangible impacts to local communities. You could see it and touch it. So we protected it.

For a lot of folks, Democracy is a big, complicated mess hard to get your head around. “Pushing back” feels like a theoretical exercise in futility. It feels hopeless.

It’s not.

This small win is a reminder that commenting, writing, calling, protesting, and resisting in general, pays off.

True, the more central one of their terrible ideas is to their terrible vision of this country, the harder it is to push back. The courts have helped, but they’re not perfect. States can be a bulwark as well, and we should engage them at all levels. (Please visit for specific actions).

But in the end, it all comes down to us. We’re the foundation. We built this country piece by piece for specific reasons. Some ideas don’t stand up over time, need reworking or rewiring, and sometimes after thoughtful consideration and lots of dialogue (arguing), we change course.

But when the regime reaches into the structure and randomly rip things out, our response can, and should, be aggressive and clear.

And we need to apply this logic proportionally to all the damaging things this regime is doing.

We’d like your help. So far we’ve got this:

• It should have a reflecting pool shaped like the Strait of Hormuz and be filled with oil and large random sheets of blue latex.

• There should be a JD Vance automaton, mouth moving, saying literally nothing, ever.

• Trump loves putting his head on super heroes, so we’re thinking a gold statue with his head on “Codpiece”. (Look it up, but be on “safe search” if your kids are nearby.)

• A pit filled with historical debris and a large sign saying “The Future DJT Ball Room, Paid For By You”

• Out front of the pit will be another statue of an eagle, with only a right wing doing an sieg heil, and laying a giant goose egg.

• West of the Ball Room Hole will be the main attraction: A large interpretive center teaching Trump-enomics. For this exhibit, you’ll have to pay before entering, the inside is full of meaningless Trump ramblings from TruthSocial, and you have to pay twice more before they let you out.

If we think of any more, we’ll add them to the list. Please suggest your own. Certainly there should be some gold phallus paying homage to Jeffrey Epstein, but I’ll let someone else design that one. I’m only willing to get so dirty.

His reflecting pool is bleeding algae and blue paint, his name was ripped of the Kennedy Center, and his Iran deal is generally seen as so much smoke and mirrors.

Which means we’re about to be victimized by another one of his outlandish edicts that is patently illegal and will still somehow get carried out.

Do you hear the thunderous explosions? Nope, it’s not ICE invading South Dakota.

It’s the National Park Service blasting Trump’s face onto Mt Rushmore.

Think about it. It’s got all the elements of a Trump Friday surprise. Just in time for America’s big 250. A grand distraction from the latest Epstein fiasco. It feeds his ego, it fulfills all the memes, it’s a clap back to all those terrible jokes and his odd musings.

It’ll only cost $250-$300 million dollars, all paid for by private donors, too, or perhaps by Mexico. He probably knows a guy who could start tomorrow. He’ll be halfway done before the injunction gets filed.

I’m totally making this up, and yet it seems utterly, sadly, and completely plausible.

But if it does happen, I’m buying a scratch-it.

And then I’m moving to Canada.

Update: Let’s keep this in front of people. Read this article in the Guardian and share widely. The purpose of the rule is fascism’: scientists fight back against planned Trump research cuts

Used to be a time when the term, “Let’s follow the science” was a reminder that objective scientific research and study was beneficial to society. I mean, cancer research, climate change, agricultural practices like pest management, environmental engineering, when developed through the rigors of well-funded scientific research, broadly benefits our society. It helps people and businesses alike. A grant process open to diverse (ooh, bad word) organizations means many perspectives are helping to advance our understandings.

I’m looking at the science aspect now, but this proposed overhaul for how federal grants are doled out will impact universities, arts organizations, manufacturers, healthcare providers and researchers, and other entities that rely on federal funding for research grants and other monies.

Remember, this is the administration that thinks any science that might document climate change should be suppressed, so they dismantle successful ocean monitoring projects. Any healthcare research that contradicts a Christian Nationalist agenda is out the door. Any agricultural research that might benefit minority-owned farmers is kaput.

Unfortunately, this regime is just getting started, and their latest proposed rule change means political (or appointed) officials will decide which grants will be awarded by deciding how they fit with the administration’s ideology.

The rule is open for public comment. Please go comment. Please. But some suggestions along the way.

First, read this. The proposed rule leads with this summary:

Federal awards were often used … to promote a ‘‘woke’’ policy agenda that did not reflect the values of the vast majority of the American public. For example, Federal programs and funding opportunities were designed to advance unlawful identity-based ‘‘Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion’’ (DEI) policies and preferences across the country. These policies were inconsistent with basic American values and civil rights laws, including the equal protection principles of the U.S. Constitution.

This statement tells you everything you need to know. Grants should only go to white conservatively oriented groups. One thing I learned from years in state government is if you keep asking the same group of people the same questions, you’ll keep getting the same answers. It’s a very comfortable way to work because you never get challenged. It’s easy and means many people get left out.

It clearly states that awards must “...demonstrably advance the President’s policy priorities,” giving political appointees a veto over any science that conflicts with an administration’s ideology.

This is one issue where it helps to use your favorite search engine and see how various independent scientific organizations view the proposed changes.

Read the proposed rule here: Regulation for Federal Financial Assistance. The problem is the rule is long and full of legalese and obfuscation. It dangles phrases that make you think you’re dong wonderful things for accountability and solving a national organized crime problem.

Others on Substack have tackled this as well. There are many perspectives. The impacts to nonprofits is potentially staggering, shifting from an objective peer-review process to a decidedly politicized process.

So I’ll quit prattling on.

Next question: Does the “public comment” process on a rule like this work? Will it matter if you take the time to do it or not? That’s the big question these days, but the foundational apparatus of review and rule making is still in place, and we need to use them while we have them.

Resist in each and every way you can.

Just the joy of a small boy learning the ins-and-outs of a big world.

For him and every child, let’s help them find happiness, recognize beauty, and experience love.

At eight weeks, Charlie has had a tough start to life. Meningitis hit at just over two weeks and it was very serious. Two weeks in the hospital receiving the best medical care available and he’s back home. He’s catching up quite well.

My daughter and son-in-law are doting, knowledgeable, focused parents. They’ve lived a nightmare made less terrible by a medical system that worked for them (mostly).

But we all know that’s a conditional statement that varies depending on your location, your gender, and even your skin color.

I’ve spent a few hours today watching those wild brown eyes searching every inch of the world trying to make sense of it.

I’m feeling the same way. I cannot look at the America I thought I knew and recognize anything.

We have a regime that feels it’s their duty to lock people away because of the color of their skin or their country of origin. They have locked the doors to their concentration camps, and they break the law every day by fighting congressional visits. They fight the people who care, and try to make caring a crime.

They especially don’t want us to see the children or their sad, terrified eyes.

Because a child’s eye’s reflect on our own humanity. If we can lock away children, and families, and parents - well, we’re capable of anything.

If you can justify cruelty to a child by blaming the parent for trying to find a better life, your humanity is lost.

Life is full of hard choices. Not all of us choose to have children or can tolerate being around them. That’s not what I’m talking about.

If how you treat, support, or love a child is influenced by factors beyond its control - that’s what I’m talking about.

It’s simple. We don’t have to keep naming the evil. We just have to remove it.

And what’s shocking right now is that means removing an entire leadership structure from our country, including a whole bunch of alleged Christian nationalists who think “racial purity” matters more than humanity. I don’t care your party affiliation: if health care, school lunches, and freedom are things you’re happy to strip from children, then we’re done. Time to go.

I’m not someone who likes litmus tests, but there are one or two deal breakers.

The way we treat children, and the world we give them - well, there is simply nothing more important.

In reality, that’s all that matters.

Take this post in my local Gannet paper this morning. Seems hackers talked Meta’s AI into handing over access to high profile accounts, exposing a critical flaw in the system.

“The breach allowed hackers to seize accounts including the dormant Obama White House page, beauty retailer Sephora and a senior U.S. Space Force official.”

The article goes on to state that hackers are learning to weaponize AI against us.

Well, duh. Who among us primates didn’t see that coming? Apparently, there are a few, and they’re at the top of the pile.

At a time when AI is being forced down our throats like dewormer in a calf, the promise that AI will positively transform our lives is like saying ivermectin cures Covid.

Name another technology in the last 50 years that wasn’t leveraged by criminals against the people it was supposed to help?

Now name a technology that’s basically monopolized by a handful of corporations, that is being woven into every facet of our lives, that requires mass industrial buildout and large portions of our national energy infrastructure, and tell me why we shouldn’t be concerned.

It’s not even as much the risk that is being demonstrated each day, it’s the sheer scope, and our unwillingness to install guardrails to prevent our complete and total subservience to what is being installed whether we want it or not.

It’s not unsurprising that VP Vance is criticizing Europe for considering social media firewalls for teens. AI creates a boundless opportunity to manipulate media and provide targeted messaging to specific individuals. Think white supremacy indoctrination, outside their parent’s control and through the complicity of Facebook, X, and other social media giants.

Oh, wait. That’s already happening.

AI slop makes deep fakes easy, but we’re starting to figure out what it looks like. But as the technology improves, and consumer guardrails fall, it’ll get harder to differentiate.

If the power lies with oligarchs imbedded in the political structure, the term “echo chamber” will become “feedback loop” and we’ll all become deaf as the high-pitched scream turns our eardrums to dust.

The current regime is leveraging this, will not help us, and will remove or ignore any guardrails that might lessen the impact. So let’s work on our state governments. Tell your state legislators that guardrails on steep, windy roads are typically a good thing. Nag nag nag. Be the squeaky wheel.

I’m skipping straight to the comics now.

The campaign of obfuscation about data centers is beginning. Tech companies trot out “experts” to podcasts and news programs saying the public backlash against data centers is unwarranted and that the public simply doesn’t “understand them.”

Given the billions of dollars headed in their direction, I suspect this will just ramp up. It’s clear that the techbros plans for AI cannot be fulfilled without thousands of these centers spread far and wide across the US.

I’m seeing posts now that they really don’t use water, and we have plenty of energy recourses to aim in their direction.

Oregon is no different than many states. When cities and small towns realize a datacenter, with very little employment benefit to the community, is about to start requiring a large energy infrastructure that residents will pay for, they get angry. La Pine Oregon just made news when residents showed up in force and convinced the city council to nix a proposed 20-megawatt data center on May 27. La Pine is, um, not “liberal.”

I don’t say that mockingly, it just is. My grandfather built a small cabin outside La Pine in 1960 and we still own the property. Grandpa wouldn’t recognize the town now, or the area surrounding it. Property was really cheap, zoning laws lax, water plentiful, and there’s a lot of great recreation in the area including fishing, hunting, skiing, snow sports, ATV trails and more.

So it’s hardly a liberal bastion pouncing on a perfectly clean industry that might displace a few sage rats.

Oregon is taking many steps to get ahead of the surge. One is to make sure data centers pay their fair share when they do pop up. Currently, Portland General Electric residential customers pay 20 cents per kWh, while data center customers pay about 8 cents.

The federal government isn’t going to tackle this issue - they just want to build more coal-fired power plants and nuclear power so the data centers can build out the dream that every aspect of our lives will be captured in binary code, sifted, and available to the administration and industry when needed.

So basically, industry is trying to force their product on the world and they’re concerned people are waking up. Cue the Tobacco Industry.

For decades, the tobacco industry actively obfuscated the deadly health effects of smoking. Through coordinated campaigns, industry-funded research, and front groups, companies deliberately cast doubt on legitimate science to delay regulations and protect profits. This systematic disinformation campaign has been well-documented through court-ordered disclosures.

The Truth Initiative is “the nation’s largest nonprofit public health organization dedicated to preventing youth and young adult nicotine addiction and empowering quitting for all.” Their approach to behavior and policy change strives to create transformative impact through national campaigns, proven-effective quitting programs, and in-school curriculums that help prevent and break the cycle of nicotine addiction at the individual level, and rigorous research and policy leadership that helps advance impactful policies at the population level.

They state: “Tobacco industry tactics to fund research and obscure Big Tobacco involvement in science and policy date back as early as the 1950s. Tobacco-industry funded organizations like the Tobacco Industry Research Committee, the Tobacco Institute, and the Center for Indoor Air Research were shut down by the 1998 Master Settlement Agreement because of their role in deceiving the public about the health dangers of smoking.”

The Foundation for a Smoke-Free World, launched in 2017, was designed after the big 1998 Master Settlement Agreement shut down other efforts to deceive the public. Philip Morris International launched it, and it’s now publishing “scientific” research in an effort to clean up its image. Do a google search and you’ll find articles blasting “The Truth Initiative” for taking on vaping, which is of course another frontier yet exploited by the industry.

Tie this to the latest tobacco industry tactics of giving money direct to Trump. The NYTs recently reported that a tobacco giant donated $5 million to Trump’s super PAC days before his administration rolled out a new policy that could be very lucrative for the industry.

An MSN article found: “Two days after the donation, a top Reynolds executive and two company lobbyists had lunch with Trump at his Jupiter, Florida, golf club. Two executives from rival tobacco company Altria were also there. During the meal, the industry representatives complained about FDA regulation of e-cigarettes, and Trump interrupted the meeting to personally call FDA Commissioner Marty Makary. When Makary didn’t pick up, Trump called his boss, Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., to complain about vape regulation.”

“Less than a week later, the FDA issued new guidance that could allow major tobacco companies to sell flavored vapes and capture a chunk of the $6 billion e-cigarette market. The policy circumvented the FDA’s normal rule-making process, the Times noted.” (article here: Outrage as report reveals massive donation preceded Trump's gift to Big Tobacco”

This is the sort of grift this regime excels at, the strategy is proven, and the money flows to the top.

So much for “Make America Healthy Again.”

While the American People have lost their ability to govern in Washington DC, we still have power in the states. Oregon is just one example where state legislators can enact controls - or at least pump the brakes - on these types of things.

If you’re interested, check out the empowering articles at the Existentialist Republic and the free publications at Buy Me a Coffee.

We cannot trust the federal government’s leadership at this time. It isn’t concerned with our health or welfare. We must take action, hold them accountable, and support the organizations that fight them in court.

Conversely, we CAN create a bulwark against federal corruption by passing state laws that protect us. Here’s one example, but there are many more at Chris’s Substack.

The Existentialist Republic

Four Laws To End The Fascist Madness.

I have been meeting with state and city representatives in North Carolina, Minnesota, Washington, and other states. They want to pass the laws that will knock this administration down and restore law and order. To get it done, we need to make sure every Democratic state legislator in the country has these proposals in their hands…

Read more

7 months ago · 1304 likes · 134 comments · Christopher Armitage