Turtle suckers of North Carolina, unite!

Driving home at 5 pm-ish, on a busy, country, road. Caught sight of something small on the road ahead of me - small and moving. Oh no, it’s a six-inch-ish box turtle. Pulling on my turtle rescue cape, I came to a dead-stop at the side of the road. Left my blinkers flashing and begin the long limp toward the critter. I say “limp” since I’m currently a captive of physical therapy.

Suddenly, another car crested the nearby hill, headed toward the itty-bitty turtle. I wildly waved my arms, pointing toward the road. The driver stopped and parked on the other side of the road from me.

It flickered through my mind that the now-stopped driver thought I was having an emotional breakdown and was coming to save me, not the turtle. But, no, the disembarked driver, clearly a kindred turtle spirit, headed toward the wayward amphibian. North Carolina is a state which mandates an understanding of why drivers suddenly, without any warning, pull over, get out, and wildly wave their arms at oncoming drivers.

“IT’S A TURTLE!”

I stood on the median yellow line, with multiple cars coming from both directions. (Wait, is this safe? Maybe they’re not from NC and don’t know about our turtle rescue culture?) I was in in full-body gesticulation, pointing toward the not-easy-to-see little shelled adventurer. My kindred turtle soul reached the crawling critter and moved it to the opposite side of the road. Such an incredible relief! I could breathe again.

Limped back to roadside safety and met up with my fellow turtle rescuer. Many mutual thanks were exchanged, both of us feeling celebratory. Considering the level of traffic encountered, we should, rightly, have been jumping up in the air and high-fiving each other. That particular behavior, however, would need to wait until after physical therapy and I shared our adieus. (Soon, please.)

After our brief celebration, I turned to cross the road back to my car. The other rescuer said, “Here, let me walk you safely back.” I suddenly felt deflated. Did I appear that helpless or decrepit? Decided, however, to perceive her gesture as an act of kindness toward another of nature’s critters - me - limping across the road. Rescues occur in all forms, don’t they? Go turtles! Go humans!

A highly re-visioned post from Oct. 31, 2024.

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A tech evolution began with a homicide in our neighborhood…

Just so strange.

20+ years ago, I took off for a week’s workshop in Seattle and returned to a neighborhood completely stunned by a homicide. The victim was someone I knew, but not well. Our 136 home ‘hood was scared to death (no pun intended) by this unsolved murder in our backyard.

Wouldn’t you be?

Fortunately, a savvy neighbor did considerable footwork (quite literally) and pulled together a sizable gathering of downright scared neighbors at her home. Each of us gathered there probably felt much less alone than we had during the previous week. We’d been slinking around, hunched shoulders, wondering if one of us might be next. Not fun.

Finally, empowered by our gathering, my friend, Rachel, suggested we set up a neighborhood listserv for quicker connectivity. This was 20+ years ago and the word “listserv“ was uncommon. We were in desperate need of a safety lifeline so this newfangled listserv thing was a go. Oh, brave new world….

My beloved late dog and I did the footwork, setting a speedy regimen of visiting the whole neighborhood, signing people up for the listserv. Folks who had not attended the earlier meeting, just stared at me when I said “listserv.” Remembered responses:

“What’s a listserv?”

“If it’s set it up, could someone show me how to use it?”

“I don’t want any more technology in my life! Got it?”

Oy!

We proceeded. Rachel set up the listserv in the back waters of our local university web. Fortunately, we eventually moved the whole shebang to Google groups before we were caught!

Thank God, within a month, the murder’s perpetrator was captured. It had been domestic violence. This is the juncture where I really don’t know what to say. Terribly sad, but at least our ‘hood felt safer again.

The listserv, born of our neighborhood’s deep fear after the murder, took off like a skyrocket. Neighbors could yell for collective help with housing disasters and questions, minus the laborious effort of telephoning everyone in the neighborhood. (Assuming you had their phone numbers.) Instructions for making snow creams were posted during our infrequent North Carolina snowstorms. A particular favorite of mine was a neighbor who reached out for a cup of coffee during a snowstorm when her electricity was off. She got it. And on, and on.

This private listserv is now the lifeblood of our neighborhood. Who would have known during its difficult beginnings?

“Sometimes when things are falling apart, they may actually be falling into place.”

• Jennifer L. Armentrout

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Here I am, again, subject to yet another life lesson. (Don’t we have enough of these lessons, as is? Might there be such a thing as a timeout? Oh, it’s called death? Forget it!)

So, Dolly Parton, you are preeminent on my learning curve right now. I’m telling on myself. Over many years, I never took the time to look past your humongous blonde wigs, pancaked makeup, and those tight, tight spangled clothes. I wasn’t fond of your voice’s timbre, either. Way too high for my taste.

I, alas, never bothered to listen to the lyrics of your large compendium of self-composed songs. I’m not trying to be mean, but you weren’t my cup of tea. I’d written you off years ago. Why would I deign to listen to your song lyrics? C’mon! As far as I was concerned, you seemed only a splashy characterture of a singing artist.

Oh, gosh, that’s harsh! Once again, I’m excelling at looking from a distance and passing judgment on others. Dolly Who?

This ‘ol universe, finally, opened its door, but only for a wee bit, to my seeing Dolly a tad differently. Dolly composed “I will always love you.” Wow, I love that song. (And, if you don’t, dear reader, what’s wrong with you?)

Dolly a Parton died yesterday and all manner of hell broke loose. The news, social media, friends, everyone was mourning. Dolly’s passing seemed to dominate all my usual media sources. The news of her death was preeminent.

So, reflective person that I am (on occasion), I set out to learn more about this icon in everyone else’s eyes, but my own. Googling up the wazoo, viewing a lengthy PBS documentary, Britain’s royal family (whoa!) paying tribute, and on and on. I was cooked by this morning; well done, in fact. Uh oh, I forgot to mention she was also a philanthropist, giving millions of dollars to supply books for impoverished children. Those lyrics of Dolly’s I’d so dismissed when I saw her only as a caricature? I whiffed that one, too.

Cooked, and damn wrong about Dolly Parton. She was a smart cookie, who loved the role she played, including all her accoutrement. Had I taken time to listen to the lyrics of this woman I’d long characterized as a Trollope (a tart in British vernacular), my eyes would have widened in shock. Dolly was intentionally playing a role she loved, with considerable wisdom and sensitivity underlying her songs’ lyrics. That is, if I’d paid attention to those lyrics…..

Mea culpa. I have much to apologize for, Dolly, but you’re already gone. I’ll continue to chip away at my long time conundrum of “my way, or the highway.” Is it possible I could live up to you? A question that never crossed my mind before…..

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I’m being followed! I’m being followed by….

Whoops, getting way ahead of myself. Backtracking: AI (artificial intelligence) and web tracking, I’m coming for you. Well, that’s not exactly true because you have already come for me…. and didn’t even ask.

AI and web tracking guys, have you been observing me, in my house, this whole time? Perchance listening to very personal conversations on the phone and those with visiting friends? Yes, you, Alexa! Listening to us and then busting into our conversation with commentary. We have no idea what triggered your entrance into our personal business. That’s a tad scary, you know. (The Twilight Zone theme cues up in the background.) Ms Alexa, you’ve also been privy to my various expletive-laden accidental encounters with furniture in my house. (It really, really hurts. C’mon….)

Mr. Web Tracking, ahem, now about you. I was googling new toilets for a friend, and suddenly found toilets, of all sorts, popping up in my Facebook feed. Toilets! Enough already. You’ve posted an ad in my digital New York Times, calling attention to the new brand of granola I just ordered, 24 hours ago, from Amazon! (True, it is awfully tasty. I just don’t like being shadowed all the time.)

By the way, Mr. Web Tracking, did you enjoy that quirky new website I discovered yesterday: The Official Loch Ness Monster Sightings Register? What a hoot! And those pics….

I have been so incredibly judgmental of you guys, Ms AI and Mr Web tracking. Conversely, I cannot forget ALL the beloved beluga whales and orca videos that now populate my Facebook feed, thanks to y’all. I love ‘em! Pleading that no great white sharks show up. Ever. I’d have a heart attack.

What to do with you, AI and Web tracking? I feel your tangible presence following me around uninvited, all the time, taking note of my private life. Don’t care for that at all.

Deep, deep breath. I’m going to do nothing. All the options I’ve explored for taming your invasiveness call for more technology skills than I have, or more money than I wish to spend. All I ask is that you keep Great Whites out of my digital feeds. For the moment, I’ll live with the rest.

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Not wishing to brag or anything, but I’m an exemplar of the, speed-of-light, judgment generator school. One and done. That’s it. You’re gone.

Thank heavens, I fell under the sway of Pete Hamill’s words. Haven’t heard of Pete? He died in 2020, but many years prior to kicking the bucket, he was a quintessential New York essayist and raconteur. His words were pungent and memorable. Ironically, this often sharp-tongued man’s obituary boosted a wake-up call to my humanity:

“Pete Hamill yearned to know what was yearning to be better in other people.”

Unlike me, the speedy judgment generator…

Wherever you landed, Pete, thank you! Read on…

A few years back, I needed several months of weekly subcutaneous shots in my belly. Fun, eh? The injection generally took about five seconds - ouch - and finis. A couple of months into this weekly routine of baring my tummy, I’d received the injection only from female nurses. Next visit, I had a male nurse, rather disheveled, probably in his 50s. His stock-in-trade appeared to be joking around with patients to relax them.

As I bared my belly for the injection (modesty seems to diminish greatly with age), he said “don’t bare too much skin because I don’t have any money to pay you.” Whoa! I mean, WHOA! His, supposedly, jokey comment was clearly a reference to women as prostitutes. I was not going let that pass (and live with myself), even though I’d already bared my belly for the injection. I’m sure this was part of his “let’s relax the patient shtick,” but not with this patient! I managed to mutter something like “I really didn’t appreciate that remark.”

Silence.

That long needled-syringe was now heading directly toward my belly (accompanied by a little imagined Twilight Zone theme music.) We’d just experienced a very strange and uncomfortable moment. Yours truly was tense and judging. Heaven knows what the RN was thinking. He was armed with a syringe, and my belly, vulnerably bared.

Shock. This blankety-blank RN chose to walk me through a breathing exercise while giving the injection. An incredibly relaxing breathing exercise, leaving my eyes wanting to close. The pain of the syringe’s entrance into my belly’s real estate? Absolutely negligible.

Completely confounded my judgments about this man. My judgment-generator took a breather. Pete Hamill’s description of digging-deep to find someone’s humanity made an appearance. Thar she blows (in that RN with the syringe.)

A revivified version from Nov. 5, 2025

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When younger - oh, so much younger - I created a psychic wall around myself in public spaces. I did not invite interactions with folks around me. I just assumed most people felt the same way about respecting the privacy of others while in public venues. If you intruded on my space while in public, I perfected a glare worthy of freezing water on the spot. An Academy Award-worthy glare, I thought. (Is this something about which to brag?)

Ok, ok, outing the truth. I was labeled as an introvert early on, very early on. Damn those Myers-Briggs personality tests! Reserved; loves solitude and reflection; worn out by considerable social interaction. It seemed to fit, so I just carried it to the nth degree. I didn’t know any better and those personality tests were administered by experts (so to speak.) I now had a label. From experts. I could tell people, proudly, that I was an introvert. How cool.

As I got older, I hit a real quandary. I noticed people around me, including yours truly, liked to be acknowledged and seen by others. Lighting up, in fact. We, humans, seemed to flourish when acknowledged, even in infinitesimal ways. Like plants in need of water.

Noticing how we humans thrived on acknowledgment, I tiptoed into the waters of being more socially present to those around me. Amazing, I did not die! I couldn’t do mindful social presence 24/7, because I would die. I’m a hybrid introvert, or whatever.

But, says she taking a deep breath, I got hooked. This introvert got hooked on social presence. Oh gosh, “social presence“ sounds so damn academic. I got hooked on being a bearer of teeny-tiny bits of social acknowledgment, thrown around like fairy dust. Watering souls. Only time-limited by my available capacity in those moments. No labels tossed around. Just the fairy dust of acknowledgment.

Damn labels! Damn ‘em. As a naïve youngster, I latched onto the label of introvert and let it define me for way too long. “Labels are for jars,” not the complexities of being human.

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Thought what?

Stay tuned, my saga begins to unfold…

Our semi-rural neighborhood is gifted with all sorts of wildlife. At my recently sold house, I was one of those suckers who fed deer, year-round. Surrounded by woods , and all the edible deer goodies, I persisted, nonetheless. The little girl in me just loved seeing real-live deer! My usual practice was to keep a, thick-bodied, plastic cooler on my porch, containing deer corn. This way, I could throw on my bathrobe in the morning, open the front door, lift the top on the cooler, and toss goodies out, keeping myself and the deer happy. Until one morning….

I opened the front door and found this:

Even so early in the morning, a number of expletive deleteds initiated my conversation with the universe about this invasion, or whatever it was. My god, the cooler top was so thick! How the heck…..

Back to the bedroom to put on real clothes. I’m not sure why but hey, I did anyway. Came back to the front door, reopened, and lo and behold, saw this:

Whoa! I’d already run through my expletive deleteds earlier, so a couple of loud “whoa’s” was about all I could muster. Oh my God, I didn’t even have my glasses on, so back to the bedroom I went

Returned to find the unavoidable truth.

Absolutely, wow! My sheer admiration for the squirrel’s persistence outweighed my “what the F did you do to my cooler.” I just stood there staring, goggle-eyed, until the squirrel got on with its day.

Over the course of the next year and a half, squirrels, twice, used the wiring on the undercarriage of my car as snacking material. My local auto repair shop became very fond of me. Then there was wiring on the side of my house, and, guess what? Yep, you guessed it. Chewed through. After installing a new roof and gutters, and having been assured there were no openings for animal access, I began to hear wild tango’s in the attic, late at night. Uh, huh. You got that one, too.

Animal Control did a good job of finding and plugging the small access hole that the nightly squirrel tango-ers were using to party and get my attention. More bucks out the door.

Oy, what did I ever do to squirrels?

Continuing to curse at the squirrels did my blood pressure no good. I gave up and saw the light. Those furry, toothy, little critters, so small of body, have what appears to be, outsized persistence. I admire their sheer gusto for life, aerial acrobatics, and the drive to survive. Personally, I want MORE of that. Huzzahs to all the squirrels out there for modeling the kind of joyful persistence I’d like in my life.

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‘Tis true. I’m still being supported by an eons-old smile, one that has stayed with me for a million years (give or take.) What gives?

Getting way ahead of myself. When younger, much younger, I was just chock full of judgments about the physical appearance of others. (Wincing, serious wincing.) My prism for seeing others allowed only a narrow view of what I considered attractive. (Face plant time.)

Now, about that aforementioned smile. In my early 20s, I was employed at a research-based institution in my college town. Several floors above me, worked an older women. Embarrassing to say this now, but I experienced her as manifestly unattractive. To my immature and young eyes, this woman appeared to be what I’d call ugly. (Oh, thank God, we’re only young once.)

Not withstanding my judgments about her appearance, I noticed this woman was always smiling. I mean, always. In the elevator, passing through my part of the building, smiling away. (She loved her work, maybe?) As a walker-every-place-I-went in those days, her home was about a block from my then-apartment. Schlepping past her house, perchance, she was outside, there was generally a smile playing on her face. Bolstered, but not knowing why, I suspect my feet slightly lifted off the ground, floating me on the way to my next destination.

(It took eons before this curious human finally understood the magic of smiles. As a response to smiles, our wise little brains release feel-good hormones. Feel good hormones! In that long-ago psychedelic age, no one knew that getting high could be so cheap.)

As time passed, I rarely noticed this woman’s actual appearance anymore (meaning the physical attributes of which I was so judgmental when first I saw her.) Only her incandescent smile stood out, literally lifting me up.

I no longer recollect what this woman looked like. I just don’t. All I remember is basking in her smile (realizing, later, I was experiencing smile-induced highs.) I never even learned her name!

Ah, but there’s a coda to this long-ago life lesson. Occasionally, I wonder what my impacts are on a needy world. I’m not an Einstein, or a warrior who leads the masses. Nope. Just me and my perceived small actions, like the practice of smiling. (Thanks, teach!)

Good, ‘ol Pete Seeger, the late folksinger, consistently, saves my guilty heart from self-judgment. Are minuscule actions (like smiling) truly impactful in our challenging world?

“Our world will not be saved by massive grand gestures, but rather by millions of small, persistent efforts.”

Go, feel-good hormones! Go, us!

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Let me own two faves. The movie, Love Actually and Hugh Grant in just about anything, including, of course, Love Actually.

“Good’s going to win” is a line spoken by the Hugh Grant character in the coda to Love Actually (made 15 years later.) I hear that line and immediately feel uplifted and warm. it’s hard to discern, however, whether it’s my reaction to Hugh Grant, or the promise of “Good is going to win.” I want it to be the latter.

Sure, I/we want “good to win.” But there’s a slight hitch in that my version of good, and yours, can often be different. Very, very different. Are there universal values we can agree constitute goodness? After doing a quickie AI literature survey of zillions and zillions of universal values, I give up! Ain’t no such beast.

How the hell does “good is going to win” shake out when there’s no agreement on the definition of “good?” Huh? (I’ve just sent a prayer to the UK, hunting for Hugh Grant, in the off chance he can provide us with an answer.)

Short of a Hugh Grant magic wand whisking all of us into a solvent of goodness, stick with me. I just thought of something.

Remember that ol’ pandemic thing? Of course, you do. I learned more about viruses than I ever thought possible. Aside from the shock value of even mentioning that word, virus (sorry, folks), did we not all learn that each of us could be a virus disseminator?

Well, guess what? Social scientists joined this pandemic party of research. Many folks think rudeness, or hurtful words, are a self-contained experience, limited to just one person, or interaction. Nope. Harsh words are truly a virus that spreads, person to person, making the lives of everyone exposed to to those words, fraught. Do any of us really need more “fraught?”

Finally, finally, we return to Hugh Grant’s “goodness is going to win.” I can’t make you (or you, or you) behave in such a way that my version of “goodness is going to win,” carries the day. (Such a bummer.) However, I can keep my side of the street clean.

Rude words are self-contained in my head. Or baldly put, I ain’t going to be a viral carrier (unless I know someone is on the same page I am.) Hey, I bet goodness spreads like a virus. Bingo! Social scientists absolutely agree. That would be my kind of carrier…

A steroid-infused post, originally from March 17, 2024.

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Toothbrushes? Awesome? Are we on the same page?

Same page, different awarenesses.

Sounds like Greek to me. Let’s start again.

The beginning….

I’m an old Trekkie who recently watched one of the newest iterations of that particular genre. In this particular iteration, there’s a humanoid holographic character, programmed to be 17 years old, whose only history is in this very moment. She sees all objects around her with absolutely new eyes, no judgments. Ergo, “toothbrushes are just that awesome!“ When was the last time, if ever, you called a toothbrush “awesome?” Now answer honestly…

Wait, wait, what’s the point to this “toothbrush” mischigas (word for the day: mischigas. Yiddish for craziness.) But, hey, surprise. Our focus is not so much on the toothbrush, as it is on the toothbrush’s perceived “awesomeness.”

Whoa, whoa! I’m truly lost right now! This all begins to sound like mischigas. I don’t need craziness on a Sunday afternoon.

Point made. Moving on.

Now, let’s just be honest with each other. If I mentioned the word toothbrush to you, what might your reaction be?

Boring…..

Gotta agree with you.

However, if I framed it as an “awesome” toothbrush, does anything change?

Well, yeah. I’d certainly be giving that toothbrush a second look, maybe even a third. Am I missing something in terms of it being awesome? Viewing my utilitarian toothbrush through the prism of awesome, I begin see it’s one of my favorite colors (purple; just adore purple.) Keepin’ it right handy for my seemingly never-ending dental journey. (Pease don’t tell my dentist I was sarcastic and said that.)

My utilitarian purple toothbrush, now, has greater dimension. It’s no longer just an object, but one with a living history, and appreciation, in my life. (Who knew purple toothbrushes could make me so happy?)

Looking through the prism of the word “awesome,” my surroundings can offer me a sense of wonder. Doors opening into memories of an object’s trailing history in my life. Everything around me is alive. Not-simply-just-an-object. Resonating with a history I generally don’t notice….

If I’m feeling a bit lonely? How about peering at my autumnal-colored couch, appending the word awesome to it. Many images of its journey through the years come swimming back. I’m no longer alone. The memories are of people who have come and gone, but nonetheless, they gifted me with their presence on that couch and in my life.

You want ongoing aliveness in your life? The password is “awesome!“ No need to protect that particular password. Feel free to share.

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Here we go. Introducing you to some unexpected daily teachers of mine. The obituaries. Stop, don’t run away! Not morbid! Downright heartwarming, to tell you the truth. Well, hell, to be truthful, there I am with my daily morning coffee, perusing the obituaries in The New York Times. My obituary teachers-of-the-day nurture my life in such contrast to our often screaming headlines.

My esteemed, but very ordinary obituary teachers provide me a humanizing roadmap, one that models permission to be, of all people, myself. Unvarnished me. I love obituaries for folks who’ve been in intentional relationship with the world in small, caring, and often minuscule ways. Living their lives not on a huge Richter scale of accomplishment, but on the day-to-day presence of being uniquely, and caringly, just themselves. That’s more than enough.

Some favorites:

“Barbara Denver made the world’s best fudge. Yes, she accomplished many other things, but the quality of her fudge cannot be overstated.”

“Susan is remembered for her generous hospitality, quick wit, and ability to order fondue in English, French, German and Swiss German.”

“With his gifted hands, Pete fixed cars, vacuums, clocks, lawnmowers, washing machines and dryers, just to name a few. His backyard was the junk yard of Sanford and Son, and many people passing through his life benefited as a result.”

My obituary teachers show me that our unique, though putatively, small presence and actions, in the world spread light. Heck, I’m all for spreading light of whatever amount. Aren’t you?

Oh, wait, wait! I’ve been so overcome by admiration for my teachers that I completely forgot to toast the representations of simple humanity in their death notices. In juxtaposition to their identified small-scale goodnesses, contemplating a future obituary for myself makes it cringeworthy to even consider behaviors such as the following:

“Jan was known for shaming people.”

“Jan was a stellar keyboard warrior who excelled at taking others down in social media.”

Not ever!

I’m grateful for the ordinary gifts of small-sized humanity that obituaries continue to seed among those of us still growing into our fullness. Huzzahs!

A revivified (pun intended) post, on obituaries, from May 4, 2025

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Oh, gosh, here it comes. The truthiness express, jam-packed with the oh-so human vulnerabilities I’d much prefer to keep hidden behind padlocked doors. “Weak, inappropriate, and occasionally, mean.” Too many others to name. (Ay, yai, yai.)

The sheer effort of shielding my vulnerabilities (from you) can be a tad (ok, considerably more than a tad) tiring. Perhaps, you’ve noticed this in yourself, as well?

But, people won’t like me. I won’t like myself….

Oh, geez, our stalwart culture lifts up the ‘yay’ emotions: contentment, pleasure, all those variations on joy. The ‘not-so-yay’ vulnerable emotions? Ooo-wee, can we just not talk about them? The chinks in my carefully nurtured Jan-armor are suddenly on public display and I, inevitably, become embarrassed by those chinks. (OMG, where’s the nearest cave?)

Enough already! I’m in serious need of a guiding light as a full-fledged member of our struggling, imperfect, human species. Yep, every single one of us. I’ve been busted for being human, and thank God, I’m certainly not alone (because I know you’re there, with me.)

The late, great, Leonard Cohen, shared a supportive anthem for all of us in need of a healthy reframe about our sometimes, challenged, humanity.

“Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in…”

Go, Leonard! Thanks for humanizing imperfection. I need all the help I can get!

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Had lunch with an old friend recently. Good and longtime Quakers that we are, gossip still continues to be a saucy menu component whenever we get together. We’re both flawed, but kind humans, not beating ourselves up for a periodic indulgence in gossip pâté.

Getting older generally sneaks into our conversations. At our respective ages of old, and older, who the hell cares. During our mutually happy foray into the French fries (oh geez, no!) Richard’s name arose. Richard, mid-80s, he of the curmudgeonly, and still, so incredibly loving mien, died several weeks ago.

My friend commented that Richard’s memorial service, at our Quaker Meeting, would be SRO. It was.

SRO? That was Richard. Always modeling that the scale of our caring, small though it might be, is akin to pebbles thrown into a pond, spreading ripples farther than our eyes could see.

His magic bag of Richard-ness, contained a carpenter who could construct anything, for anyone, gratis. That guy who would assist a friend, living several miles away, put drops in her eyes, three times a day, post-surgery. A mensch who could barely stand up as his cancer advanced, but continued to offer a loving ear to the long-incarcerated men he escorted to our weekly Quaker meetings.

And down to earth! Richard was a dedicated believer in bourbon as a loving panacea for those who might be in emotional need. I don’t drink, but I always, always, appreciated his offers to schlep bourbon way, way across town, in order to provide libational support for my mental health. His mere offer perked me the hell up!

Richard was curmudgeonly. No hiding that. He was curmudgeonly in the way that it took a bit of discerning, at times, as to whether he was being sarcastic, or not. Of course, this might also be a very apt description of me.

Did I just out my, occasional, curmudgeonly self? Guess so.

I make every effort to curb my own, sarcastic, curmudgeonly-ness. With Richard, I didn’t have to. That thar curmudgeonly streak was a small component of both our personalities and, hell, we both took a bit of joy in being curmudgeonly with each other.

He was an exemplar of being both vulnerably human, and a loving Quaker, to boot. Wavin’ at you Richard, wherever you are.

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There it was! Childlike wonder, shock, and human vulnerability. I mean, literally, he collapsed on the ground in awe. All occurring during the first few minutes of that iconic film, Jurassic Park. Dr. Alan Grant (actor Sam Neill) had just seen a dinosaur!

Sam Neill died this week, but his 1995 personification of Jurassic Park’s Dr. Alan Grant, has lived on, and on, and on, and on…..For heaven sakes, I’m not making fun of Sam Neill, or even his beloved, alter ego, Dr. Alan Grant, who, by now is an international cinematic icon. No way.

Yet, here I sit, pondering and pondering the sheer cascade of RIP Sam (or Alan Grant) digital and traditional media posts, falling like heavy rain during hurricane season. In my mind, I’ve compared the volume of RIP Sam Neill versus RIP Robert Redford messaging, and have come to the conclusion that Sam’s winning. Wow, versus Robert Redford, of all people. Pretty amazing!

What is it about Dr. Alan Grant/Sam Neill that triggered this incredible cascade of condolences? Oh my, I can’t forget to mention that now-classic, Jurassic Park, musical overture, part and parcel of the RIP outpourings.

Here’s my non-evidence based theory regarding all the emotional adulation pouring down. It’s the guilelessness of a child, passing over Alan/Sam‘s face when seeing his first dinosaur. Allowing his body to collapse at the sheer enormity of finding there’s actually a Tyrannosaurus Rex in Jurassic Park. Completely unembarrassed in fully displaying the panoply of his feelings, some quite childlike, including stumbling over his words. ‘Tis Dr. Grant/Sam Neill in his human fullness.

Childlike wonder, expressed by an adult, however, can be downright embarrassing. There are times when I have a tendency to mask my explicit childlike reactions. Collapsing on the ground in absolute wonder? Ummm, don’t think so. For heaven sakes, I’m an adult!

Whoa, whoa! Yes, I’m an adult, but still in possession of my own treasure trove of childlike reactions regarding the appearance of wonder. Why shouldn’t I express my feelings, aside from cultural embarrassment. (Eeek! She’s doing….what?)

So, y’all, here’s to Dr. Alan Grant/Sam Neill for allowing the Jurassic Park character to express the full range of his human light. No embarrassment, just wholly human, like the rest of us.

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I’m in thrall. Please bear with me….

In thrall?

The bears! The bears! Alaska’s Katmai National Park’s Brown Bears, replete with 24/7 live video cams. An online Facebook group of good folk celebrating bear minutiae: which bears ‘got lucky’ with which mates; conjecture about which bear might be the father of ‘that cub’ (“see those long legs?”), and the chicanery of Katmai bears’ sex lives. (“Over there, behind that greenery. Again. )

God, I adore this group!

Huh?

Oh, was that not clear?

There are over 50,000, obsessed Katmai bear fans, world-wide, dissecting just about everything concerning these named and numbered (by the National Park Service) critters. Calling it for what it is, total brown bear engagement. I am one of them.

Sex aside (although I don’t think that’s bear-y possible), fisticuffs, among the bears, are the daily norm. Fisticuffs by mother bears protecting their cubs, the boy bears duking it out over salmon fishing territory. Oy, massive claws, 2 to 4 inches in length. All-purpose tools for nabbing spawning salmon and for bear-to-bear conflict, as well. (If there's conflict, I hide my eyes. I’m the person who refuses to watch a movie if a dog gets killed.)

Honestly, I usually run the other way from online groups. Too much vitriol by participants, in the commentary. Certainly don’t need more toxicity in my life. Do you?

Be that as it may, flat-out vitriol is banned in this group. There has been an outright taming, not of the brown bears, but of participants’ claws digging into one another. Bears, you may have noticed, aren’t the only ones with an affinity for clawing others.

Then, what’s left to do in this group?

Vitriol-free, this online community of brown bear fans share commentary that leaves me gasping for air, while laughing. A needed relief from a world in which everyone seems to be clawing each other. I’m thirsty for a safe harbor that tickles my funny bone and supports my heart. Read on for exemplars of bear-y social commentary.

“Wait! What? Did I read that right? The BEARS are gonna hold Olympics? Imagine the events! Salmon run. Diving. Splooting. Wrassling. Water ballet.”

“Bear 807 was seen strutting his stuff, looking for the ladies. Love is in the air!”

“I’M HERE TO SAY GOODBYE TO THIS GROUP THAT I LOVE SO MUCH. MY HUSBAND SAYS I’M IN THIS GROUP EVERY 2 SECONDS & HE CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE. HE TOLD ME TO CHOOSE BETWEEN HIM & THE GROUP. I’M GONNA BE OFFLINE FOR A COUPLE OF MINUTES WHILE I PACK HIS BAGS & CALL HIM A CAB. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.”

“A handsome brown bear has once again been spotted roaming the beach, scoping out the sow situation, with absolutely zero shame.”

“I want to know if Mama Bear 26 survived those 2 cub hooligans, being locked up with them during hibernation. LOL.”

“That cub! OMG I just wanna boop that little pink nose! “

Examples of shallow socialization in an online community? I suppose, but is socialization shallow if it feeds my heart?

Seriously revised from April 19, 2026

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Wailing away on my stationary bike. I mean wailing. Hooked up to my iPhone and ear buds, listening to a “gentle rain for relaxation” track from a music playlist. Yep, I was sweating buckets, but satisfied the old girl still has it in her. Ended by splashing water on my face, removing the sweat from this “you done good” stationary bike ride.

Lifted my head from the bathroom sink and heard….what was I hearing? The sound of loud running water. Disturbingly loud. Lifted the heavy toilet tank lid and happily found its innards appeared docile and quiet. The rushing water sounds persisted. A quick peek into the tub and shower found nothing amiss (except, perhaps, my diminishing sanity.)

A tad OCD (as I often am in crises), I once again lifted the heavy toilet tank top. Just doing its toilet tank thing; in this case, nothing. Still, the sound of omnipresent rushing water was scaring your friendly catastrophizer, up the wazoo.

Heart pounding, I trotted into the kitchen. The kitchen faucet looked a wee bit lonely, in the empty sink, but it damn well wasn’t dripping. But, OMG, the continuing sound of rushing water seemed to echo throughout the house. (Did it occur to me to take a deep breath, or two, or three, at that juncture? Nope.) Leaped out the back door to the patio faucet. Quiet as a lamb. But that damn sound of surging water, rolled outside with me. Whoa!

Honestly, I’m a good and kind person, but also a life-long catastrophizer, with a fertile imagination, to boot. For a few seconds there, I pictured a watery geyser, boiling up beneath the duplex, and the edifice floating off its foundation. (See what I mean about creative?)

And, yours truly would be held responsible!

Absolutely desperate to dispatch with my homeownership responsibilities, I’d sold my house a few years ago. Present moment, Poseidon, God of the Sea, seemed to be saying, “Not so fast, girlfriend.” (Had I recently blasphemed Poseidon, unknowingly? If so, many apologies.)

Ok, time to face the music (and text the duplex owners) to staunch my anxiety and the apparent non-stop flow of water, on a late Friday afternoon. Oh, geez, the duplex owners are just going to love this one. Took in several belated deep breaths. Reached into my pocket where my iPhone nestled. Pulled it out and very, very loud running water sounds literally washed over me! On the iPhone screen, the gentle rain sounds, played during my bike ride had migrated to the next track - Rushing Mountain Stream. My bogus Rushing Mountain Stream water emergency might soon be a comedic one-act play, appearing at a local theater near you. Who knows?

Coming clean on this story, I had to out myself as the catastrophizer I am. Not wishing to beat myself up for this lifelong challenge, I’m taking the sage advice of that long-lived cartoon character, Popeye, the Sailor Man:

“I yam what I yam, an’ that’s all what I yam.”

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Are you missing out on getting high?

Also, what’s happening with your face?

Well, geez, what kind of questions are those? Upselling getting high? What kind of “high” are we talking about, anyway? And this thing about our faces?

Oh gosh, all these questions! In this particular context, getting high is not a function of any sort of libation, smokable materials, or God forbid, injectables. Nope, it’s just pure ol’ feeling high, naturally. If you want to get technical about it, (and I really, really don’t!) getting high is an upsurge of our brain’s hormone, dopamine, creating feelings of euphoria, warmth, or sudden amusement. Smiling triggers this.

Nice, eh? I definitely want more of those feelings! Don’t you? Pretty damn low cost, too. And my face, (yours, too) is often a hidden resource for getting high, if we’re paying attention to what it’s doing. Not kidding. Talk about close to home…

Clearly, in order not to confuse you any further, let’s back up, and share the hidden revelation that got me going on this whole road to “my face and getting high.“

Driving home recently, on the hilly rural road leading to my place, I discovered I was smiling broadly as I drove (a bit too fast) down the steepest hill. Whoopee! Vroom, vroom! (OK, it’s true, I was imagining myself as a kid, sledding down that snow-covered hill, definitely a rare occurrence here in central North Carolina.)

But… I was smiling. No big deal, except that I actually noticed I was smiling. Which got me to thinking how frequently I drive up and down this steep hill, without noticing how much I enjoy doing so, likely eliciting a smile each time.

So? Is the fact of delightful smiling outcomes in our brains some sort of nonsense? No way! It’s a cheap ticket (very, very cheap) to getting high. (Cutting way, way down on the cost of libations and whatevers.) Yep, a proven scientific fact, smiling triggers our brains to release mood-enhancing hormones, like dopamine (pleasure.) Abra-cadabra, euphoria, warmth, and sudden amusement have discovered our home address and added it to their contacts.

Am I a dopamine junkie now? Don’t think so. Just a more mindful human who’s noticing that taking an extra moment to really look at something, can stimulate a smile and offer me a natural high. Is that so bad?

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There she goes again. Me, that is. Not wishing to kill some very small, multi-legged, critter who has decided to share the house with me. In this case, in the bathroom. I continue to wonder, even after all these years, if I’m a native of the “she hates killing buggy critters” gene pool?

It’s a challenge, carting around my considerable self judgment, when a person in front of me at a store yells “Roach” and stomps on it. Basic painful admission: I feel sorry for the roach, not for the surrounding folks who are incredibly relieved at this particular outcome. Can I blame them? Absolutely not. Sighting a roach usually raises my BP 10 to 15 points, and yuck, they certainly would not be competitors for “beloved pet of the year.“ Still, it was alive….

Over the years, I’ve created interventional tools to catch, and ferry roaches, and other buggies, outside. Mostly effective. Unless it’s late at night when my soft heartedness gets overwhelmed by exhaustion, and out comes the vacuum cleaner. You can guess the rest. Human….

Now, about that decent sized, intransigent spider, hanging out in the bathroom. With good faith, my generally, effective “tried and true” implements for bug ferrying, have been employed, and failed. The spider has lodged itself into a 90°corner, making my careful interventions impossible.

What now? Still unwilling to bring my size 9 heel down on the spider, so I’m talking to it. Well, not out loud, but in my head, continuing to share that it’s safe from this human’s “OMG, it’s a spider” lethal reactions.

At the moment, ‘tis a cliffhanger. I admit to wishful thinking that I’ll wake up some morning and find, positioned in the corner, its little body. Cop-out? I don’t know. Mostly, a reflection of my embarrassment, even after having been inextricably led down this buggy rescue path for so many years.

And then, like a long unanswered prayer, Kermit the Frog (and his muppet buddies) begin to sing “It’s not easy being green” in my head:

“When green is all there is to be

It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?

I am green and it’ll do fine,

And I think it’s what I want to be.”

Kermit knows best, does he not? (I mean, he was a hugely successful froggy on TV, and in movies, for many years. He’s gotta know something.) No, it’s not easy being green, different, or even a buggy savior, but “I am who I am and it will do fine.”

Onward…..

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It’s highly embarrassing to be a peace-loving, non-violent, Quaker and an ardent viewer of the violent, action-packed, Marvel Cinematic Universe. The Avengers! Captain America! Iron Man! What has happened to me? Will my peaceful Quaker community disavow me?

My TV died a long time ago and I was fine with that. Commercials, commercials, and more commercials, ad nauseam. Enough already. Still, I felt the need for a bit more streaming variety. Disney+ had a great deal for a year and I bought it. Hook, line, and sinker, inclusive of the full panoply of Marvel Superheroes movies. Yes!

I adore superhero scenarios of flying, supernatural strength, Thor’s flinging of his magic hammer, and all those unbelievable super-powered activities that boggle my rational mind. Nothing wrong with a bit of magic in our lives, is there?

I now request your kind indulgence for the sharing of a personal vulnerability with you. Here ‘tis. I’m incredibly queasy around fighting and violence. It just seems so gratuitous, so unnecessary - so, well, violent. I mean, does a movie character need to be knifed in the stomach to make the show worth viewing? (Judging by how many times I’ve seen this happen in Marvel movies, the answer would appear to be yes.) I keep my eyes shut tightly during these scenes. My peaceful inner Quaker quakes.

Oh, but unlike the comic book superheroes with whom I grew up, (Superman! Batman!), all the Marvel characters are fallible, conflicted, humor-endowed, and struggling with their humanity. (As you can see, I’m working to redeem myself as a peaceful Quaker by acknowledging this human’s daily struggles with her humanity.)

Truly, it’s the Marvel superheroes’ human-like struggles that facilitate my revisiting uplifting sections of the films, time and again. Granted, I can’t fly (except in my dreams) but facets of the caped crusaders’ experiences parallel my own struggles as a plain ‘ol human being. This particular Marvel facet almost makes up for all the violence!

I will continue to, speedily, stream through Marvel fight scenes (some of which seem to take f-o-r-e-v-e-r.) Nonetheless, I truly hope that viewers who tune in for the fighting, and violent mayhem, are also moved by the realistic depictions of superheroes struggling to find the emerging light in their own challenged humanity.

Cape or no cape, we’re all struggling with our humanity. Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, and me….

Published in the Chatham News+Record, October 31, 2024

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Utterly embarrassing.

“No, no, it wasn’t ALL my fault that I fell headlong over the cliff of Amazon Prime Days.” (Just mostly my fault.)

Primary placement of blame should really rest on the shoulders of Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. Bezos, the progenitor of the annual Amazon Prime Days. However, this particular cringing writer, having previously lived a parsimonious life, was swept away by the Prime Days’ rip tide of putative savings. “I bought WHAT? I really, truly, NEEDED that? I ordered THAT, without looking at its dimensions? Yes, yes, and yes.

Just sucked right in by deep emotional hunger during the most recent Amazon Prime days. (Let’s hold the hunger bit for a minute. Shall we?) Most items I bought did not have a significant decrease in price and of course, some NOT any reduction all. Truth. 60% of what I purchased was not on sale. But, hey, I was already online, so why not buy ‘em? (Yep, Amazon has our number.)

In retrospect, my “Feed me! I’m feeling empty!” cry has discovered an internal understanding (even though it’s well past my sordid Prime debauchery.)

This is its light of day…..

I, Jan, am a news junkie. A diehard newshound. My putative daily bible readings are inclusive of subscriptions to the major news organs as well as a slew of political analysis sites. I am hungry to know the state of our world. A deep, ongoing, and voracious hunger.

A tiny, but important sidebar. I’m guessing most of you are familiar with Superman and kryptonite, considering the plethora of movies and comic books over many years? Kryptonite deprives Superman of his powers, leaving him feeling weak and disempowered. That Superguy needs to avoid kryptonite, at all costs, if he really wants to continue being Superman (and making movies.)

In no way am I equating myself with Superman. (Me, in red tights. I don’t think so.) However, I have great empathy for Superman’s disempowerment when he encounters kryptonite. Following our world’s news, on an hour-to-hour basis, I feel as if I’m experiencing a large-scale kryptonite wipeout. Utterly weak and disempowered. Hungry for something, ANYTHING, that helps fill me up and returns me to some sense of empowerment.

Ta dah! Along come the annual Amazon Prime Days. Fodder for empowering myself to buy lots and lots of items, for sating my deep hunger in a hurtful world, I can’t control.

‘Nough said. I don’t think I’ve gone broke (but I’m not up to checking just yet.) With greater understanding of my Prime buying spree, I can smile at some of my purchases, particularly the “Squishy Light-Up, Dimmable, Duck Lamp.” I saved a whole two bucks off the full price! Whatta deal!

Oh, thank God, E-books are beckoning me again. I need something healthier to occupy my time, while hopefully, the world isn’t burning.

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