Theo of Golden by Allen Levi popped up everywhere. Facebook, emails, casual conversations. “You have to read it,” beamed across the stars. So, I did. Twice. The second time was when Susan* chose it for our Bookslingers book club. I’ll get to that in a minute.

I rode the fence on whether the book honored its hype. Initially, I couldn’t get into it. I pulled it up on my Kindle, read a few pages, and then snapped the cover closed. Several times. While billed as an uplifting antidote to the ongoing news-cycle brutality, it was a little too over-the-top sweet. And stretched credibility.

I was sorta surprised that Susan picked Theo. She prefers nonfiction books. She likes facts and proof. Theo lacks both. But it teems with love and humanity. She said a friend told her it just made them feel good. Susan agreed. And wanted to share it with the Bookslingers.

I, too, learned from reviews, friends, strangers on the street that it warmed their hearts and gave them hope. Was the best book they’d ever read. Some claimed it touched them spiritually. I wasn’t sensing any of that, on my first run, until …

Back in January, having endured vertigo and failed attempts at causes and treatments, an ENT (ear, nose and throat) specialist diagnosed me with BPPV (benign paroxysmal positional vertigo). It’s all about crystals in the inner-ear vestibular labyrinth that somehow get dislodged. How? A head injury is high on the list. But sometimes an individual incident can’t be isolated. A sudden movement – a drop or turn of the head – that you may not remember.

I recounted for the ENT the first time I felt the vertigo. Lying on my yoga mat for morning stretches/exercises, I heard something on TV that made me sit straight up. (I have had arthritis and other problems with my back for years, and I never sit straight up. I turn on my side, hand-walk into a sitting position.) My head swam, but I just thought it was the abrupt movement. It quickly resolved for the moment, and I got to watch George Stephanopolous introduce his new, adorable, adopted puppy – Stanley Stephanopolous.

“That’s when it happened,” The ENT said. “But it can be fixed in one or two sessions with a physical therapist.” He further explained that a trained therapist would manipulate my head into positions that moved the crystals back to where they belonged.

Alrighty then!

At the initial session, on a Monday, I sat on the exam/treatment table facing the therapist. A young man, last name Payne, sat on a stool with my record pulled up on his computer.

“Do I know you? You look so familiar,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I responded. “Maybe you know one of my kids?”

“No, I guess you just have one of those faces that people think they recognize.”

He began by having me lie on my back with my head hanging off the table. He turned it to the left and had me pick a focal point. No vertigo after a minute. He then turned it to the right. From that position my world spun, and I saw four or five of the one actual focal point. That “simple” maneuver told him where the rogue crystals were. Don’t ask me how. He then had me lie on my side, hang my head forward off the table, where he manipulated it for a couple of minutes. To move the crystals back into their proper place.

“You can sit up now. It’s gone.”

Too good to be true? I wasn’t dizzy sitting up, but that didn’t tell him anything definitive. I went home with strict restrictions on head movements/positions and instructions to come back the next day. He would repeat the original side-to-side maneuver to be certain the vertigo was resolved.

“If it’s still there, which I doubt, we’ll repeat what we did today. No matter what, I promise you, it will be gone by the end of the week.”

The next day I arrived too early to go inside, so I sat in the car and grabbed my Kindle. Theo of Golden was the only book I hadn’t finished, so I picked up where I had last stopped reading. A few pages in, the author described that a character ... was wearing a loose flannel shirt (Payne’s gray, “the color of English rain”) …

I closed my Kindle. The color of a flannel shirt had never stopped me. But the coincidence that this specific color – which I had never heard of – bore the name of the therapist who just the day before had cured my vertigo gave me chills. Was the universe saying through this book it brought me here? Exactly where I was supposed to be at that moment?

I took a deep breath and went into the facility. He was a little late, but when he arrived, he had me lie on my back with my head hanging off the table. Where he turned it from side to side as he’d done the previous day. No vertigo. I saw only one focal point on each side.

It was over for real. I sat up, and we chatted for a few minutes. I had not decided whether I should mention Payne’s gray. But why not?

“I didn’t know if I was going to tell you this,” I began. When I finished, he sat quietly for a while before responding.

“You may think this is strange, but a few days ago a friend asked me what my favorite color is. I hadn’t thought about it in a long time. You just don’t get asked that very often. And believe it or not, it’s gray. Not many people would pick gray, but I really like it.”

The chills.

He turned to his computer and Google’d Payne’s gray.

“It has its own Wikipedia page!” he said. He read that an English watercolorist, William Payne, developed the color in the late 18^th century.

“Wow. Do you have English ancestors?” I asked.

“Yes.” He stared at the computer for a minute or two. “I think you should leave now.”

The magic of Theo? Therapist Payne had cured my vertigo when nothing else had worked. And he learned that a shade of his favorite color shared his name. And possibly his lineage.

Who knows? I finished the book as soon as I got home.

Theo of Golden is the story of an elderly man from New York city via Portugal who visits Golden, Georgia. Why? We don’t know. At first. But Theo falls in love with the place. Especially a set of framed portraits that a local artist sketched and that were displayed on the walls of Golden’s quaint coffee shop.

Everything in Golden is quaint. But I digress.

Theo decides to buy individual portraits and gift them to the subjects they portray. In the course of his benevolence, he (and we) come to know each person and their stories. In depth and with tenderness. While he remains mysteriously unknowable beyond his kindness, empathy and generosity. The latter grows exponentially for a few of the gift recipients.

The individual portrait subjects’ tie-ins with each other, Golden, and even Theo, are uplifting. A much-needed visit with human kindness and connectivity. Also, the descriptions of the gift recipients and their meetings with Theo are exquisite. I became enthralled with each and every one. And with Theo. I cried a lot. Happy, sweet tears.

I struggled with parts of the book. How the beautifully written characters and scenes are bound together and their stories resolved is less captivating. Mainly in the epilogue. I don’t always consider an epilogue unnecessary, as some do, but this one ruined the soul of the book for me. As a writer and avid reader, I hate stories that are wrapped up in a pretty package with a bow on top. And one specific wrap-up negates an aspect of Theo’s very essence. Why, oh why ….

In April, I reread Theo before my book club meeting. Although I, again, cried throughout and felt joy, love, and community, I continued to hate the epilogue. I enjoyed discussing it with the Bookslingers, all of whom loved the book. As Susan and most of the world predicted. Only one slightly agreed with my epilogue analysis.

Oh, well. I’ll always have my Payne’s gray kismet.

*The Bookslingers are accomplished, amazing women. Susan is a classical violinist, orchestra conductor, and recently retired prep-school music teacher. She also generously shares her talents and skills around the world. Just weeks following our discussion of Theo, she traveled to El Salvador as a guest maestra:

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NOTE: Last year I told you about my amazing book club (Literary Listicle: The Bookslingers, My Book Club’s First 30 Reads of the 150 to Date) where I began listing our book choices from the beginning 13-14 years ago. And I never got back to it. I have a new plan. Each month, I’ll feature our current book and then list 20 or so of our prior reads. This post features our 162nd book, and the lists go backward from books 161 to 141 (minus one on hold). I’ll share all our books by the end of the year.

On Sunday, Kathy, who chose Nobody’s Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre as our March book, joined our 2 p.m. CDT Zoom meeting from her residential cruise ship. At sea off southern Australia, skirting two typhoons. At 5 a.m. her time. (A few years ago, she circled the continental U.S. on a nomadic RV adventure and managed to find Wi-Fi when book club rolled around.)

So it goes with the Bookslingers.

We tend to spend upwards to an hour just visiting, catching up on each other’s lives. Followed by the state of the world, the state of our country, and our mutual disgust with all things Donald Trump. The last three provided a perfect segue into March’s book.

Virginia Roberts Giuffre is the first face most of us attach to Jeffrey Epstein’s sexually abused/sexually trafficked child victims. Who hasn’t seen the picture of the teenage Virginia (she went by “Jenna”) with former prince Andrew’s arm around her waist and Ghislaine Maxwell lurking in the background? Disgusting. The brutality of her young life hidden by the smiling public façade.

Jenna’s history of sexual abuse started with her father. Repeatedly. Who also shared her with a friend. Repeatedly. Two high school boys raped her. The police believed their “consensual” storyline. She ran away from her home and was placed in a treatment facility called Growing Together, where she was abused yet again. She ran away from there and ended up with her first, Epstein wannabe, child sex trafficker. She eventually ended up back in Growing Together. Back and forth between there and stints at her family home.

Her father worked in maintenance at Mar-A-Lago (yep, that one), and got her a job there as a spa attendant. Maxwell, with her evil radar for troubled kids, homed in on Jenna at Mar-A-Lago and took her home to Jeffrey. For “massages.” The details of Jenna’s ensuing years were excruciating to read. An especially appalling revelation: Epstein “needed” to ejaculate at least three times a day. Maxwell kept him supplied with young girls to ensure his quota.

I walked away from the book several times. Jenna and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young girls endured the Maxwell/Epstein atrocities. Over years and years. Across the country and the world. Passed around to powerful men who Epstein could blackmail with his hidden cameras.

And I didn’t want to read about it. Shame on me. I picked up the book and finished it.

After several years of sexual slavery, Jenna escaped. Physically. Maxwell/Epstein sent her to Thailand to learn a specific massage technique. Ironically. There she met a young, kind Australian man, Robbie Giuffre. They married and moved to Australia. They had three children. She was happy. And never again had to touch Epstein or his endless stream of thugs. But they haunted her thoughts and nightmares. Always. So, she fought them. Took them to court. Testified for others. Relentlessly. For the rest of her life.

Virginia Roberts Giuffre is why most of the world knows about Epstein. We must remember that Jenna was instrumental in bringing the Epstein “dynasty” crashing down. Why he killed himself. Why Maxwell is in prison, albeit a cushy one. Jenna gave strength to the hundreds of now-women who have come forward to demand justice for their lost childhoods.

Jenna can no longer speak for victims or for herself. She died from suicide just months before her book came out. Toward the end of her life, she had fallen, broken her neck, and endured several surgeries and constant physical pain. She was not weak. She was not afraid of taking down her abusers. She was hurting.

Jenna is gone. We must not close our eyes, turn off the television, put down the book. It’s up to us all to never back off. To help the living victims. To bring down the perpetrators. As Jenna told us through a quote that began Part I of Nobody’s Girl:

Do you know why this world is as bad as it is? … It is because people think only about their own business and won’t trouble themselves to stand up for the oppressed, nor bring the wrong-doers to light. … My doctrine is this, that if we see cruelty or wrong that we have the power to stop, and do nothing, we make ourselves sharers in the guilt. __Anna Sewell, Black Beauty

Rest in peace, Jenna.

Twenty previous Bookslingers’ reads (numbers 161-141, minus one on hold):

• We Fed an Island by Jose Andres and Richard Wolffe

• Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Evolution by Cat Bohannon

• Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri

• The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan

• The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

• The Book Club for Troublesome Women by Marie Bostwick

• 1984 by George Orwell

• Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

• Patriot by Alexei Navalny

• Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrik Backman

• The Wisdom Pattern by Richard Rohr

• ASTOR: The Rise and Fall of an American Fortune by Anderson Cooper

• The Book of Lost Names by Kristin Harmel

• All Fours by Miranda July

• Barracoon by Zora Neale Hurston

• Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin

• On Call: A Doctor’s Journey in Public Service by Anthony Fauci, M.D.

• Alfie & Me: What Owls Know, What Humans Believe by Carl Safina

• A Most Tolerant Little Town: The Explosive Beginnings of School Desegregation by Rachel Louise Martin

• The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams

No Brad Pitt. No convertible. No driving off a cliff. Just two 72-year-old friends with a few hours to kill while waiting for the pharmacy to fill a prescription.

In my 16-year-old Kia, Soul Sister. Who never sought notoriety.

She has faithfully served me all these years with only one failure to start (she was due a new battery – bless her heart). That episode was only one of two times she’s gone in for an actual problem. Last year, her alternator required replacement. Her only complaint was a dashboard warning light, which I heeded immediately. She deserves prompt attention. Just as I have diligently followed her well-car checkups.

Peggy, my fellow passenger on this escapade and Thelma to my Louise, was recovering from a recent replacement of her own. A left hip. Soul Sister stood in solidarity and was proud to transport her, as necessary. As was I. Even though I currently possess all my original joints, my dental history reflects an entirely different tale. And heaven knows, Peggy and I have had lots of maintenance.

I must digress. To about a month before our historic (histrionic?) ride, which occurred after Peggy’s one-month-postop doctor’s appointment.

Just to lay a little background.

Peggy knew for a while that she needed a hip replacement. She had the right one done a couple of decades before. But age and life circumstances change. And make every major decision more and more complicated. Being a brilliant strategist, she planned every step to perfection. She painstakingly chose the surgeon, hospital, and home after-care. We, her friend family, provided moral support, love, and fill-in-the-blank-needs. Connie, Diana, Bonnie, and me. With Peggy, the Five Ladies in Writing. Transportation was one of the biggest concerns. While all of us stood ready to provide it, Peggy had limited mobility and difficulty getting into and out of some vehicles. Except for Kia Souls. Connie and I each own one. Connie took Peggy to her presurgical doctor appointments and drove her to the hospital on the morning of her surgery. I took her home the next day.

That trip to her lovely home out in the country was less Thelma-and-Louise but still a story. (My friends would tell you that I always have a story, and they are mostly right.) A home-health caregiver, I’ll call her Pam, came to the hospital to help Peggy get packed and into my Soul for the ride home. Pam drove separately in her older model, large sedan and arrived at Peggy’s home ahead of us. We followed her up the long entrance drive to the house, where the driveway turns to the right and goes uphill. At the top, Pam needed to turn right into one of the three carport bays. She couldn’t get the car turned correctly and headed for one of the support posts. She stopped before she hit it, backed up, and tried to align the car correctly. But she bumped into a tree.

I threw Soul Sister into park, pulled the hand brake, and got out to help her. With the patient impatiently watching from my passenger seat.

When directing Pam up close didn’t help, I offered to park it. She gladly got out, and I tried to slip into the driver’s seat. I did not notice how close it was to the steering wheel, and I got stuck. Pam was able to move the seat, and I parked without incident. Then Soul Sister and I pulled up to Peggy’s back door where she safely debarked and entered her house. Phew!

As she and Pam settled in, I ordered pizza from Peggy’s favorite restaurant just a few miles down the road and left to pick it up. No further incidents. I stayed at Peggy’s until a shift change in caregivers and helped Pam get her car out of the carport and head correctly down the drive.

You might think that was an unnecessary tale, but it to comes back to bite me in the Thelma and Louise escapade.

A month later. Peggy’s first post-op checkup. Connie and I tag-teamed her transportation. Connie brought her into town, and I met them at a restaurant for lunch. After we ate, Connie transferred Peggy’s things into Soul Sister and helped Peggy into my front passenger seat. We then made our way to the doctor’s office.

Peggy moved remarkably well but still required a walker for moral and stability support. Transversing the long halls to and from her appointment was doable but tiring. When we climbed back into Soul Sister an hour or so later, she was ready to stash the walker and sit for a while.

It ended up being a two-hour-ish sit. And the start of our Thelma and Louise adventure.

Peggy needed to pick up wound-dressing material and an antibiotic prescription the doctor called into her pharmacy. Since it was a small, down-town family-owned business and wouldn’t carry the bandage materials, I drove to a nearby Walgreens for those needs. She stayed in Soul Sister, and I went in search of Betadine cleanser and a self-adhesive bandage recommended by the doctor. Neither of us was exactly sure about the latter, but she thought she could order them from Amazon. She instructed me just to get gauze pads, tape, etc. What we both understood. And what would work for the time being.

The first adventure.

I couldn’t find the Betadine.

The clerk pointed out the one little bottle on the top shelf. He had to reach it for me. I found the pads and tape without assistance. Then I spotted what I thought were the self-adhesive bandages Peggy talked about. So, I grabbed a package just in case. (Turned out that they were exactly what she needed. And I learned something new.)

Back in Soul Sister, Peggy called the pharmacy. They had not received the prescription from the doctor. It was only 4:30 p.m., but dark, and we needed to kill at least an hour.

The bar scene was out of the question. And we didn’t want to get out of the car. So …

“How ‘bout we get a milkshake? We can drive through somewhere.” I suggested.

“I haven’t had one in years,” Peggy said.

“Me, either!”

We decided on Sonic Drive-In. Where we could park in our own bay with a speaker for ordering, and the yummy ice cream treats delivered to the car. A Sonic was close by, near an intersection that led cars directly onto Interstate 24 and received traffic coming off. It was rush hour in Murfreesboro where traffic flow rivaled Nashville’s. And did I mention that it was dark? With lots of bright traffic lights?

It took us a bit, but we got there. I chose a spot facing the Dollar General Store parking lot next door, the store entrance on the left. Peggy ordered an Oreo-cookie-blitz-of-some-sort. I opted for the basic chocolate milkshake. Our favorites. We sipped and oohed and aahed.

“It’s as good as I remember,” Peggy commented.

I nodded.

We watched after-work commuters pop into the Dollar General. For milk, bread, Froot Loops for their kids’ breakfast. Probably diapers and Advil. I speculated in my head. I was too busy enjoying my milkshake to talk much.

With the last sip, we pulled out of Sonic and pointed Soul Sister toward the pharmacy. We hadn’t heard from them, but it was near closing time. And surely the prescription would be ready.

It wasn’t.

“What do you want to do?” I asked Peggy.

“I can get it tomorrow.”

I forgot. The doctor gave her the green light to drive. We headed to the country and our next adventure.

The traffic dropped off significantly as we drove out of the city. I couldn’t decide which was more difficult to navigate: the blinding glare of night-time traffic and city lights or the near total darkness of the country. Both were equally taxing on my aging eyes. I turned into Peggy’s drive without difficulty, but we didn’t go straight to her house. Rather, we took a detour to her standalone garage a short way into her property. She wanted to pick up one of her vehicles from there. To move it up to the house for easy access the next day.

Remember, she could drive now.

I turned onto an asphalt offshoot drive that curved by the barn on its way to the garage. Both outbuildings had lights attached, but I had difficulty seeing and following the curves of the drive. Did I mention that the asphalt had an inch or two rise?

I fell off it. Twice. Not exactly flying off into a canyon. Just a tire sliding off. Twice. We bounced in our seats. Twice. Jarring and uncomfortable for a passenger with a newly installed bionic hip.

We stopped near the garage. Peggy, with the aid of two canes, walked to the door to unlock it. I followed closely behind. It wouldn’t open. The key didn’t work. Several tries with that key and others. I held my phone flashlight on the door lock. I tried the key, too. She took it back and voila! Just like magic. It opened.

She got in the car, opened the bay door, and the car started right up. Phew! I pulled ahead of her in the drive, waiting to make sure she cleared the garage and the door rolled shut. Then we both drove to the house, with my driving past the back door, giving her room to park. I took her walker out of Soul Sister so she could safely climb the few steps to her back door. She opened the house and exchanged the walker for her canes once inside.

I followed her in to see if she needed any help. Everything was fine, so we hugged goodbye, and I headed to the door. Patting pockets for my car keys.

My pockets were empty.

“I must have set them down somewhere,” I said and retraced my steps in her house. No keys. “Could I have dropped them outside when I was moving stuff around?”

She stood in the open door, while I searched. The back stoop, the stairs, the driveway. I turned on my phone light and kicked leaves in the drive. Looked under the edges of both vehicles. No keys.

Soul Sister was locked. They simply had to be somewhere between her and the few places I had walked in the house.

“I have no clue!”

Then Peggy looked down. At her walker. Just inside the door. And the tote bag she had slipped over its handle. There they were. My keys. Inside the tote bag.

Go figure. Soul Sister and I made it home without event. Adventured out.

Thirty years ago. I drafted, on a typewriter, a letter-to-the-editor of my local newspaper. In response to “Protecting Children,” an opinion piece published on April 29, 1996, written by Tom Tohill, the then executive director of The Rape and Sexual Abuse Center in Nashville.

When I accidentally stumbled upon my old letter (drafted/never finalized or sent), I searched The Tennessean newspaper archives for the op-ed piece by Tohill. I needed to read just what had moved me way back then.

To my disappointment, the dire subject matter remains front page news.

Excerpts from Tohill’s essay (The Tennessean, April 29, 1996):

… Although most people find it hard to believe that one in three girls and one in six boys will be sexually abused before their 18^th birthday, experts on child sexual abuse consistently confirm these numbers. …

Preventing all sexual abuse is impossible, but we can reduce the risk of our children becoming victims. Start with communication: have regular conversations with your children so you know what is going on in their lives.

Teach your children at a young age the accurate names of their body parts. Talk to them about good touches and bad touches. We all know how good it feels to receive a pat on the back or a hug, but there are touches that do not make us feel good.

Talk about secrets – when it is good to keep a secret and when should they tell someone. Be sure your children know to tell a person they trust if someone touches them in a way that makes them uncomfortable. …

If a child is sexually abused, it is important for him or her to receive effective counseling to help deal with the multitude of problems that abuse can cause. Children do not simply forget that the abuse took place…

During Child Abuse Prevention Month, make a special effort to talk with your children. Help them reduce the risk of being sexually abused. And equally important, realize that effective counseling can help a child or adult overcome the symptoms caused by childhood sexual abuse.

What jumped out at me now, and then, was that the emphasis on prevention was landing squarely on the children. And when they tell us what happened to them, we don’t believe them.

But there is counseling.

Excerpts from my draft letter as I wrote it then. (I did correct the math):

Dear Editor:

I read with great interest Tim Tohill’s editorial on “Protecting Children” (The Tennessean, Monday, April 29, 1996).

I have read and heard everything he said many times, and it is all true – we should teach our children about good touches/bad touches; to respect their bodies and boundaries and to tell when anyone has violated those boundaries; sexual abusers are almost always known and trusted family members/friends; and one in three little girls and one in six little boys will be sexually abused before their eighteenth birthdays.

Most of us are particularly horrified by this last fact. It means that if you walk into a classroom – anywhere in this country – of the 24 children (assumed equally divided boys/girls) in that room, four of the girls and 2 of the boys are being sexually abused, have been abused in the past or will be abused in the future.

What are we doing to stop this abuse? …

For a couple of decades now we have been actively educating our children from preschool on as to how to recognize and avoid sexual abuse, and, most importantly, to tell a trusted adult if they are violated in this manner. Has the abuse stopped? No. What is wrong with this picture?

WE ARE EXPECTING CHILDREN TO CONTROL THE BEHAVIOR OF ADULTS! And not just any adults – but the most conniving, manipulative, frightening, powerful, and trusted adults in their young lives.

I have a novel idea as to the approach of childhood sexual abuse: LET’S TELL THE MEN NOT TO OFFEND. Let’s move the education from the preschool into the boardroom.

If we walk into a business meeting of twenty-four adults (90% or more of sex offenders are male – so let’s assume 21 are male), how many of those present are sex offenders? Do we have any idea? Has anyone ever done a study? We know in a room of twenty-four children, six of them are being abused. Someone’s doing it. Can we safely transfer the statistics and say six of these respected businesspeople are sex offenders?

Why can’t we have an educational program “I Know Who You are, and I know What you Do” that’s presented to corporate America. Put it on in every boardroom, boiler room, every professional meeting in the country. Include a coloring book to make it interesting. This is not about taking the message home to your children that they should look out for sexual abusers. This says we know some of you are sexual abusers and you absolutely, positively must stop. It is not your right nor privilege to seek sexual gratification through exploitation of a child.

Also, get it out of your minds right now that you are not harming a child. The children do not want your sexual attention, they do not seduce you, and even if they physically respond to the abuse – it is simply a biological response. They have not developed the emotional, physical and intellectual maturity to be involved in a sexual relationship, and you may not exploit their innocence and naivety.

2026. We have not protected our children. The statistics remain frozen. Shame on us.

It’s long past time that we turn our prevention education to the abusers.

In Tohill’s 1996 “Protecting Children,” it’s the subtitle that gives me chills. “Some good suggestions for making sure your youngster is not sexually abused.” Those suggestions include nothing about telling the abusers to stop. Then and now, we let adults be adults, men be men, sexual abusers be sexual abusers. And throw away the right for children to be children. But there is counseling.

There are occasional legal repercussions for sexual abusers. But too few are arrested, fewer still are imprisoned, and most go undeterred for decades and decades. Epstein?? Maxwell??

Thirty years ago, I knew we were not addressing the CAUSE. Just trying to minimize the effects. We simply must change our approach. Create a required employee/volunteer/consultant training course that directly addresses the child sexual abusers in the room. Brutally, repeatedly, honestly. In workplaces, schools, churches, examination rooms, locker rooms, daycare facilities, on and on and on.

WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND WHAT YOU ARE DOING. IT STOPS NOW!

I drove to the drive-thru menu screen at Panda Express and ordered my usual. Sesame chicken bowl with fried rice and an egg roll. Rounded my total up to give to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital and pulled forward to the pick-up window. There, the young food worker and I exchanged pleasantries as I paid for and received my food. I set the bag that held my lunch in the passenger seat and headed out via the back road. To access the nearest traffic light to make a left turn.

For heavy-traffic left turns, I always plan a right-turn path to traffic lights.

At home, I enjoyed about half of the bowl and the whole egg roll. I put the remaining chicken/fried rice into the refrigerator and dug through the Panda Express bag in search of my fortune cookie. I like the cookie, so it’s a twofer for me. My fate predicted along with a bite or two of dessert.

I broke it open. Empty.

My mind immediately went to doom. Cain’t have nuthin,’ as my late brother would say.

A quick internet search informed me not to jump to conclusions. I found two, often-repeated, somewhat positive interpretations:

• I should consider it a blank slate upon which to write my own fate.

• Fate owed me good fortune because it failed to provide any fortune in my Panda Express cookie.

I purchased the cookie on Aug. 1. And the month brought good fortune amid despair.

A dear niece had received a frightening diagnosis earlier in the summer, and she underwent major surgery at the end of August. My emotional roller coaster took a shaky dive. She, however, slayed the dragon. In true form. Walked out of the hospital – no wheelchair – the day after surgery. Her expansive, loving network held her in their hands for weeks. And still walk just behind and to the sides.

The roller coaster inched upward. She learned at her follow-up surgeon’s appointment in September that she was cured. Completely. With no need for further medical intervention. Just physical therapy to help strengthen muscles and movements as her body recovers from the surgical onslaught. The roller coaster continues to climb as she heroically marches toward full recovery.

I couldn’t have written a more blessed fortune.

Personally, things changed a bit. Beginning with a second fortune cookie.

On Sept. 8, I ate a late lunch from Panda Express. I was optimistic that the fortune cookie message was a change for good. Who wouldn’t be? A few hours later, early evening, my bite felt weird. A lower-left dental bridge was wobbly. I lightly touched the top of the bridge, and it broke off. Taking its two anchor teeth with it. Sheared at the gum.

The roller coaster dropped to the bottom.

The teeth remnants required surgical extraction a few days later, which I chose to endure under local anesthesia. I was fortunate that preop pain was nonexistent. Postop pain was minimal. For the surgery site. But my whole mouth felt battered. For a week, my primary sustenance consisted of tomato soup (which I’ve never liked) and chocolate pudding (which I no longer like). I was hungry and cranky and cursing Panda Express, but the roller coaster inched upward.

Then came Wednesday, Sept. 17, and Disney (owner of ABC) suspended the “Jimmy Kimmel Live” late-night television show. I was outraged on so many levels. As a journalist and American citizen, I passionately defend the First Amendment. I love Jimmy Kimmel and watch him every weeknight. ABC is my go-to for local news and weather, lots of national news, and it airs the only network television shows that I watch.

But Disney’s action cut deeper. A personal betrayal. The roller coaster jumped the rail.

I raised my children on Disney, and I never once thought the villain would win. Cruella de Vil never wore a spotted coat. Maleficent fell to Prince Phillip’s Sword of Truth. Scar met his hyena karma. Good always prevailed.

Until Sept. 17.

When Disney became complicit with their newest villain. The evilest one yet. The most unredeemable. Enabling him to harm millions of Disney children and their families by stripping the American foundation from beneath their feet. Capitulating to authoritarian pressure in their willing violation of the US Constitution. Just to appease an orange tyrant’s thin-skinned egomania.

My children are in their 40s. I’m 72. And we make Disney references as freely as a sports family rehashes football plays. A couple of examples:

My son Mac, then 38, cleared dishes from Thanksgiving dinner as his future mother-in-law Mary Pat, her best friend Dorothy, and I sat at the table talking. Mary Pat wore green, Dorothy pink, and I had on blue. Mac stopped in his tracks, balancing a pile of plates, and stared at us. “It’s Fauna, Flora and Merriweather!” he said. Mary Pat and Dorothy looked confused. I laughed, immediately recognizing his reference to the three good fairies in Disney’s “Sleeping Beauty.” They wore green, red/pink and blue, respectively.

For many years, Ursula was the technician who conducted my yearly mammogram screening. A lovely woman, kind and gentle, skilled at her job. But when I looked at her URSULA name tag, I saw the half human/half octopus purple sea witch from Disney’s “The Little Mermaid.” Slinking forward to squeeze me in a vise. When I told my daughter Beth this story, she started singing: You poor unfortunate soooooul. (Ursula’s wicked song.) My image from that day on had a soundtrack. Every year.

I boycotted Disney and ABC. Right away. I did not cancel.my Disney+ streaming service. Yet. I was mourning the loss. But I never went on the app or accessed ABC network from the moment I heard about Jimmy Kimmel’s suspension. I called the Nashville ABC program director and voiced my disgust at their capitulation. I deleted their weather app from my phone. I relied on the “Heavy rain in your location,” and similar alerts. How I missed that voice. And my morning local TV news. And George Stephanopoulos on “Good Morning America” and “This Week” on Sunday.

Over this tumultuous time in my personal life, I sat down to write several Debbie Does Digress posts. I just couldn’t get beyond a few sentences, sometimes paragraphs. I was mid keystroke in a piece about Disney’s betrayal, when …

Disney lifted the suspension. Less than a week later, under tremendous pressure from its customers. Jimmy Kimmel came back on Tuesday, Sept. 22. I didn’t have to cancel my Disney+ subscription. The roller coaster settled back onto its rail.

Except I couldn’t watch it. The Nexstar Media Group owns my local ABC affiliate and continued to block the show. I continued to boycott them. I had to watch “Jimmy Kimmel Live” on Hulu the morning after it aired. But I didn’t miss “Dancing with the Stars.” Disney+ streamed it live! By that Friday, both Nexstar and Sinclair Broadcasting (the other ABC affiliate who maintained the block) caved. I returned to my normal television schedule. Local news. George. I reloaded the weather app.

The roller coaster creaked its ascent.

As you can see, it took me a while longer to get back to the keyboard. This piece underwent many, many iterations. I’ve eliminated, added, and rewritten more words than I (and Word) can count. That tricky roller coaster continues its wild ride up and down. But I dare to let go and hold my arms in the air. Occasionally.

I even returned to Panda Express earlier this week. For the first time since my dental surgery. I ate only a few bites. But I did receive a fortune in my cookie.

Fingers crossed.

This is mine.

I’m not a graphic artist. I’m not a marketing expert. I am a concerned American who has had enough. And ROC exudes the healing strength and resolve required to overcome the prevailing political toxicity. On many levels.

ROC is the perfect metaphor for its homophone, rock.

Our day is here. It’s time we stand against the fascists who are destroying our country. We have to stop wringing our hands and complaining about how bad they are. We must counterpunch their every cruel, disgusting, vile, democracy-shredding act with a compassionate, inclusive, honorable, democracy-restoring act.

That’s right. Act. ACTION. Not just words. But bold plans and follow-throughs.

Let’s start by overpowering that damn red cap with something of our own. That’s immediately recognizable. That instantly identifies us as the liberators of our democracy. We must find a logo/slogan and run with it. Emblazon it on a sea of blue caps, banners, shirts, and flags.

ROC is my contribution. It came to me out of the blue. I’m not looking for monetary return. I just want SOMETHING to get going. SOON!!

ROC fits the bill. Just take a few definitions for its sound-alike.

• Rock as a noun:

  • One that is similar to or suggestive of a mass of stone in stability, firmness, or dependability*

  • Foundation**

  • Support**

• Rock as a verb:

  • To be excellent or outstanding*

  • To move forward at a high speed**

And think about all the fun songs/lyrics we could adapt for our cause. (With permission from the writers/owners, of course!)

• I Am a ROC (“I Am a Rock,” Simon & Garfunkel)

• We Will ROC You (“We Will Rock You,” Queen)

• ROC On (“Rock On,” David Essex)

• ROC Around the Clock (“Rock Around the Clock,” Bill Haley and the Comets)

• ROC This Town (“Rock This Town,” The Stray Cats)

• ROC the Boat (“Rock the Boat,” The Hues Corporation)

• Long Live ROC (“Long Live Rock,” The Who)

You get my idea. What’s yours? We’ve got to get something started. Please share this post with as many people as possible. Restack it. Forward it. Post it on other platforms. Add your concepts. Time’s a-wasting. And remember …

You are a ROC star!!

*American Heritage Dictionary

**Meriam Webster Dictionary

In May 2017, my knowledge of Charles Lindbergh was short and specific. He was the first man to fly solo, nonstop across the Atlantic Ocean. And his baby was kidnapped. My high school American history teacher had not shared that Lindbergh was also a Nazi sympathizer who received the Service Cross of the German Eagle medal, in Germany, on behalf of Hitler.

Maybe my teacher didn’t know.

That spring eight years ago, I rescued a kitten. And ignorantly named him Bergher. For Lindbergh, the American hero.

I backed my Kia Soul into the cul-de-sac just like every morning. But before I turned to head out, I glanced up my driveway. Two tiny kittens, one gray, one cream, lay curled tightly into each other where my vehicle had been seconds before. I could have run over them! Thankful that I hadn’t. Shaky at the thought, nonetheless.

My neighborhood was home to several feral cats. They lazed around on our cars, porches, lawns. I often repeated to myself, “Hundreds of cats, thousands of cats, millions and billions and trillions of cats.” From one of my kids’ favorite children’s books.*

I enjoyed having them around. Most of us did. We were cat lovers and fed them, talked to them, petted them if we dared. And, most importantly, we had them neutered or spayed. We humanely trapped them. And a service picked them up, took them to the vet, and then returned them to our neighborhood. We still had feral cats, but they weren’t reproducing.

The parents of the kittens in my driveway didn’t get the memo.

The day after the first sighting, I looked under my Soul before getting in. There was one kitten. The cream-colored one. The gray sibling was nowhere around. I finagled him out and set him in the grass. Off I went. The third day was a repeat of the second. On the fourth day, a Saturday, I took the hint. He became mine. (I kept a lookout, but his sibling never returned.)

I must digress to explain his name selection. When he chose shelter under my vehicle, I had a then 11-year-old cat named FlyBoy. As a tiny kitten his very loud crying guided me to him in my sister’s yard. Where green flies were laying eggs on him. Sheets and sheets of fly eggs. I scrubbed them off and raised him. (See my previous post Abandoned Kitten Came to My Rescue.)

FlyBoy’s name may seem obvious, but it’s not just about the flies. He was brave like the original Flyboys – World War I ace pilots. He was a survivor. And I always thought that should I ever adopt another cat, I’d stick to the aviation naming theme. For a girl it would be Millie (for Amelia Earhart). Ace for a boy. Or Lindy (for Charles Lindbergh).

When I adopted the under-the-car little boy cat, I chose Lindy. My daughter thought Bergher was better. I went with her suggestion.

In 2017, Nazism was in the air. Although, just like my not knowing the Lindbergh reality, most of us weren’t aware. Impossible to fathom its return. Even though the United States had inaugurated our first Hitler-sympathizer president. Even though, in August of 2017, only a few months after Bergher came into my life, Nazis marched in Charlottesville, Virginia.

I was so upset by that sight that I went to my first public protest. On the downtown square in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I didn’t bring a sign. I just showed up. And some young man gave me one. And later a candle to light.

That summer and the entire first Trump term was a nightmare. Culminating in the January 6 attack on the Capitol. But it was just the trailer for the horror movie that is his second term. Nazis in power across the board. Ignorance and cruelty replacing competence and compassion. Masked Gestapo grabbing U.S. citizens and hard-working, family-oriented, tax-paying immigrants off our streets and out of their schools, churches and workplaces. Throwing them into crowded cages in alligator-infested swamps and Salvadoran torture chambers. Without due process. Without even verifying identification. Totally ignoring judges’ orders to stop and turn around. And let’s not overlook the reality that National Guard and military troops are taking over our cities. For no purpose other than intimidation. There are no emergencies needing their intervention.

The Nazis are here, real and a threat to everyone. The danger to our freedom and way of life is in our faces every day – we can’t pretend it’s not. Not ever again.

I can’t believe I labeled my adored cat with such an evil moniker. I did correct it as soon as I learned the truth. By changing the spelling to B-u-r-g-e-r. Like the sandwich.

Now that we absolutely know the truth about Trump and his minions, when are we as a country going to correct it? It’s not as easy as respelling a name, but we must stop them.

I should have named him Ace.

*Millions of Cats by Wanda Gag.

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From A Man Called Ove, his first novel, to his recent release, My Friends, Fredrik Backman brings to life unforgettable characters. Full-fledged, three-dimensional humans, warts and all. They’re community. Interwoven. Essential. Molding each other’s journeys. But don’t get complacent. How they go about it is likely to catch you off guard.

Hold on for the ride. Backman propels you through adventures that are certain to be outside what you anticipated. The twists and turns leave you heartbroken, elated, angry, thrilled. Raw human experiences. The good and the bad. If you don’t like a character or the path they’re taking, keep going. You’ll want to find out what happens. I promise.

Then there are his words. They reduce me to tears throughout any read. Their beauty. Their intensity. Their love. Their aching.

So, in this listicle of his works, I’ve chosen one small, exquisite excerpt from each one. No synopsis. No analysis. Just a glimpse of Backman’s brilliance. In his own words.

• A Man Called Ove*
  … And so it turned out that Ove became a night cleaner instead. And if this hadn’t happened, he would never have come off his shift that morning and caught sight of her. With those red shoes and the gold brooch and all her burnished brown hair. And that laughter of hers, which, for the rest of his life, would make him feel as if someone was running around barefoot on the inside of his breast …
  Backman, Fredrik. A Man Called Ove: A Novel (p. 79). Atria Books. Hardcover Edition.

• My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry
  … Elsa decides that even if people she likes have been shits on earlier occasions, she has to learn to carry on liking them. You’d quickly run out of people if you had to disqualify all those who at some point have been shits …
  Backman, Fredrik. My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry: A Novel (p. 315). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

• Britt-Marie Was Here*
  … If a human being closes her eyes she can remember all the choices in her life. And realize they have all been for the sake of someone else …
  Backman, Fredrik. Britt-Marie Was Here: A Novel (p. 321). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

• Beartown Series

  • Beartown

    … The love a parent feels for a child is strange. There is a starting point to our love for everyone else, but not this person. This one we have always loved, we loved them before they even existed. No matter how well-prepared they are, all moms and dads experience a moment of total shock, when the tidal wave of feelings first washes through them, knocking them off their feet. It’s incomprehensible because there’s nothing to compare it to. It’s like trying to describe sand between your toes or snowflakes on your tongue to someone who’s lived their whole life in a dark room. It sends the soul flying …
    Backman, Fredrik. Beartown: A Novel (Beartown Series) (p. 357). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

  • Us Against You
    … It’s hard to keep a secret in the locker room. Any sort of secret ...
    Backman, Fredrik. Us Against You: A Novel (Beartown Series) (p. 402). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

  • The Winners
    … So after school she goes straight to the ice rink if she has training, and home to Sune’s if she doesn’t. Other children might have made drawings for him to stick on his fridge, but Alicia isn’t keen on drawing, so the puck marks in the plaster of his wall have become much the same thing: small marks in time that say someone you love grew up here …
    Backman, Fredrik. The Winners: A Novel (Beartown Series) (p. 478). Atria Books. Hardcover Edition.

• Anxious People*
  … That’s an impossible thing for sons to grasp, and a source of shame for fathers to have to admit: that we don’t want our children to pursue their own dreams or walk in our footsteps. We want to walk in their footsteps while they pursue our dreams ...
  Backman, Fredrik. Anxious People: A Novel (p. 30). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

• My Friends
  …The artist called the painting The One of the Sea, so that’s all anyone looks for. The boys in the middle are hiding in plain sight. Who can paint like that? Who can punch the lungs of someone who merely sees three kids hanging on a wall? Who can make you smell the salt water and weep over someone else’s childhood? …
  Backman, Fredrik. My Friends: A Novel (p. 17). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

• Novellas/Short Stories**

  • And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer
    … “Do you remember what you always said when we went fishing on the island and slept in the tent? There’s nothing wrong with being a bit scared, you said, because if you wet yourself it’ll keep the bears away!” …
    Backman, Fredrik. And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer: A Novella (p. 13). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

  • The Deal of a Lifetime
    … I was born here but I’ve never gotten used to it; Helsingborg and I will never find peace. Maybe everyone feels that way about their hometown: the place we’re from never apologizes, never admits that it was wrong about us …
    Backman, Fredrik. The Deal of a Lifetime: A Novella (p. 11). Atria Books. Kindle Edition.

  • The Answer is No
    … Happiness can be exhausting. Honestly, it’s most often enough to just not be the opposite. So, Lucas isn’t unhappy. That’s the secret...
    Backman, Fredrik. The Answer Is No: A Short Story (p. 61). Amazon Original Stories. Kindle Edition.

Before you dive into a Backman book or story, grab some Kleenex. And, for the Beartown Series, add a quilt and maybe wool socks and gloves. Hockey is cold.

*Chosen by my book club, The Bookslingers

**I purchased these as standalone, Amazon Kindle novellas/short stories. Backman has a book of short stories titled The Deal of a Lifetime that contains the title story as well as And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer and Sebastian and the Troll. I do not have the book, and I have not read Sebastian and the Troll. I own and have read Backman’s every published work of fiction except for this one short story.

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Diversity, equity and inclusion are foundational within families that consist of more than one child. I’m awake to my children’s differences, and I cherish their individuality. I equally love and adore them. And tolerant inclusion goes without saying. Long car trips come to mind.

My first child, Beth, born in late 1980, molded me into a mother.

She was serious and intense. As a baby. She took in everything on her terms. Silently. Methodically. She’d lock her piercing eyes on mine and drill into my soul. “Oh, I know you,” she seemed to be thinking. “We’re together in this.”

At pediatrician appointments, she rarely cried or fussed. She just stared at her doctor. Followed his every move with those eyes.

“Be-eth,” he’d say in his Southern drawl. “You’re gonna hurt Dr. Perry’s feelings.” Then he’d turn to me, and say, “The serious ones are the smart ones.”

He hit the nail on the head with that one. Beth was and is brilliant. She learned by osmosis, sucking up her environment like apple juice from her bottle. Evaluated each sip of knowledge and filed it into the proper folder in her ever-expanding cerebral data bank. At six months, she’d pick up a block that went with her shape-sorter Fisher Price tub, give one try to put it in the corresponding shape in the lid. If it didn’t fit immediately, she’d take off the lid and drop it in. And move on to her next conquest.

Beth became mobile at 4 months. At that age, she pulled herself with one arm across the floor, usually headed toward the newspaper. Or paper of any kind that landed in her territory. She was on-hands-and-knees crawling at 6 months and walking at 9. Always with purpose. Toward something. A toy. A snack. Our cat Indy. Who was beckoning from the couch. Anxious to engage in conversation. Beth’s first word was meow.

At 13 months she had a limited vocabulary, maybe 15 words. Two months later, she said her first sentence. We, Beth and I, enrolled in a child development course at Memphis State University (now University of Memphis). With three other mothers and their toddlers near the same age as Beth. Lead by an early childhood education specialist, who provided activities for babies and moms based on the children’s developmental stage(s). I learned to give children only blank paper and crayons, markers, pencils for art projects. Big fat crayons for toddlers. Never coloring books. To teach them to use their words to deal with conflict. And for us adults to use our words to diffuse tense situations. Of course, remove any child from danger, but to say things to the offender such as, “Hitting hurts.” And lavish attention on the offended.

Little did we know how closely Beth was listening. She was bald except for a few strands of hair on the top of her head. One little girl inevitably sought out those strands to pull. A couple of classes in when she grabbed onto Beth’s hair, Beth said, “No hair me!” We praised her profusely for using her words and ignored the perpetrator. There was no more hair pulling.

Beth never stopped talking from that moment on. By 2-years-old she could recite “Twas the Night Before Christmas,” and her vocabulary and questions grew and grew exponentially. Once, when she was 3, she fell and scraped her knee as we were hurrying to the car. She cried and cried. I picked her up and acknowledged that I knew it hurt, but “the pain will go away.” As I buckled her into the car seat, she became quiet. That meant her little brain was processing profound thoughts that she was about to lay on me. I started the car and headed out of the parking lot when she posed the question, “Where does the pain go?”

When she turned 4, I was very pregnant with her baby brother and exhausted. I valued and nurtured her intelligence and curiosity – at that point, she was planning to become a paleontologist and would talk dinosaurs to anyone who would listen – but at times I thought I couldn’t answer another question. So, I had an idea.

“Beth, do you know what fifteen minutes are on the clock?” I asked and pointed it out on the large wall clock in our kitchen. She was just learning to tell time.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Let’s play a game.”

“Okay!”

“Let’s see who can go for 15 minutes without asking a question.”

She became quiet. Uh-oh. She broke her silence with, “What do you mean by that?”

Mac came into the world in early 1985. He immediately made it clear just how much I had left to learn about this mothering thing.

He was as loud and physical as Beth was calm and cerebral. He was alert to his surroundings but responded with physical movement. As much as a newborn could. Arms waving. Legs kicking. And when the response he was seeking – whatever that might have been – didn’t materialize, he howled. Loudly.

Mac was on hands-and-knees crawling at 4 months and walking at 9. Just to be moving. He never stopped. Although I was a free-range sorta parent, Mac had to be corralled for his safety and household sanity. My adapt-as-needed mothering approach kicked in. I never allowed Beth to have an infant walker. Basically, a seat encircled by a tray with a lower circle of wheels that allowed babies to propel themselves with their feet. The purist in me thought it impeded muscle development necessary for walking. Or some such theory. But there was a bigger issue with Mac. Crawling was just not fast enough for him. Frustration and wailing ensued. But drop him into that contraption and … ZOOM ZOOM ZOOM.

We owned our first house by that time. A one-story ranch, thank goodness. Since our table and chairs fit nicely in the kitchen’s breakfast nook, the “formal” dining room became a giant play pen/playroom. With the installation of a couple of baby gates. It gradually filled with a Little Tykes slide, kitchen, desk. You get the idea. We lived there for six years, and the closest it came to being a dining room were the wallpaper and window treatment.

Another concession I made with Mac that I never considered with Beth was a harness and leash. Yep. I still get grief about it. But it was an act of kindness. Mac had to move. And strapped in a stroller was tortuous for him. One day, pre-leash, I took him out of the stroller and let him walk in a mall store. He ran right into the middle of a circular clothing rack, and I had to crawl in after him. The leash gave him freedom. And me peace of mind.

I read to my babies from birth. Often. And always at bedtime. Until and even past when they could read for themselves. As babies and toddlers, their picture books were interactive. Numbers. Colors. Everything was up for discussion. “Where’s the horse?” A little finger would point it out. “What’s does a horse say?” “Naaaay,” a sweet voice would respond.

One more diversity between my babies popped up here. Mac could point out anything I asked. He understood everything I read to him and discussed with him. But he couldn’t say the words. Not correctly. Or not at all. If I asked him to point out the wagon, he’d go right to it. If I pointed to the wagon and asked him what it was, he would take his little finger and outline it. No word.

He spoke his own language, which Beth called Macanese. She was the primary interpreter. Her favorite at the time and even now was Mac’s “o-o-do-do.” Any guesses? It was Oreo cookie. It’s not that we didn’t know what he was saying. We did most of the time. My favorite was his, “I’m a punny pewwo.” (Translation: I’m a funny fellow.).

Words may have failed him, but his visual and fine motor/spatial skills were out the roof. He drew constantly. On plain paper. By 2, I bought him art pads, and he had mastered thin crayons, markers and pencils. He watched the Cinderella movie and drew her over and over. Pages and pages. Art pads and art pads. He would daydream and draw in the air. Seeing the world instead of listening to it. When he was 3, he could beat all of us – his 8-year-old sister and 30-something parents – in Perfection. A timed, shape-sorter game with 25 tiny, pegged shapes to be inserted into 25 corresponding holes.

Also at 3, I took Mac to a speech therapist, and within a few months he spoke Macanese no more. One of his speaking problems was that he didn’t finish words. Beth was Be. After the first lesson with the therapist, he ended his words. It was like, “Oh, that’s how to do it.” Fascinating. I am so thankful that I moved forward in seeking help – his pediatrician wanted to wait a year – and for the therapist’s incredible skill and compassion. Mac calmed down and seemed to adopt the attitude, “I got that. Let’s move on.”

Beth and Mac were and are equally intelligent and creative. In diverse ways. Beth was overtly hungry for knowledge. Mac was a sleeper intellect. Beth excelled in performance art – dancing, singing, acting in school, church and community theater. Mac shined in visual arts – drawing, painting, sculpture, and print making.

Both were in the talented and gifted programs beginning in elementary school. Beth was in third grade, the earliest her school tested. One of her first activities for the one-day-a-week pullout program was holding a mock trial to convict Hansel and Gretel for killing the witch. They pleaded self-defense because the witch had tried to eat them. Beth played the witch’s granddaughter and was the star witness for the prosecution. Her damning testimony: “My grandmother would never eat children. She was a vegetarian.”

We moved a couple of times, and Mac didn’t get tested for the program until fifth grade. When he got into the car after taking the test, he asked me: “Mom, who was that girl who wrote the diary?”

They are now beautiful, talented adults. With a degree in biochemistry, Beth, at 44, is the Senior Manager of Manufacturing Excellence in the steel industry. Mac received a Bachelor of Fine Arts and is a Product Designer/Marketing Coordinator for a flooring company.

They found and married the loves of their lives. And blessed me with my two precious sons-in-law.

Bursting with pride!

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A couple of years ago, Earlene texted me and asked if I’d like to meet her and Fredia for lunch. Of course! I was thrilled! It had been over 50 years since we’d been together.

The rest of the story is history.

We all remember that first “real” job. The first 40-hour-a-week, health-insurance-provided, grown-up job. For me, it was at Rutherford Hospital in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. From 1971 to 1974. I worked the 3-11 p.m. shift as a unit clerk, which was the clerical person at the nursing station.

When I started my job in August of '71, I was 18 years old, three months out of high school, and three months married. My then-husband started work there, too, as a male nursing technician. We went to college in the daytime, as did a large proportion of the hospital evening and night shifts’ personnel. I trained and rotated through the hospital nursing wards for a few months before landing on my permanent gig. West Surgery. The larger of two surgical wings. Just steps away from the surgical suites, recovery room, and ICU.

I found my work family on West Surgery. While there was rotation for days off, vacations, etc., and ancillary healthcare providers flitting through each shift, our core group remained consistent.

Faye, a registered nurse (RN), was in charge, and Earlene, a licensed practical nurse (LPN), dispensed the patients’ medications. Fredia, Pearl and Thelma were nursing technicians who provided basic patient care, prepared them for surgery, and aided in their post-op healing.

Hospitals in the ‘70s bore little resemblance to modern medical edifices. Rutherford Hospital, opened in 1927, was dark and brown. Beige walls and wood trim everywhere. Very little glass, and what was there seemed to have a greenish-gray tint. At least that’s how I remember it. The yellow-tiled walls in the basement, which housed the laboratory, radiology, cafeteria, and timecard punch clock, failed to brighten the atmosphere.

Nurses wore white dresses (although white pants uniforms were allowed), white hosiery, white nursing shoes, and white caps whose shape reflected their specific nursing schools. RNs’ caps were trimmed with black stripe(s); LPN caps’ trim was green. Nursing technicians wore the same white attire and white nursing shoes. No caps. A unit clerk’s uniform was mandated to be a white top, black pants, and white nursing shoes. I rebelled and never wore the shoes. I vaguely remember orange and yellow Tom McAns.

Nursing stations were enclosed behind windows. West Surgery’s had a half-opening and counter in front. On the work side, one long, Formica-topped desk ran under the counter, wall-to-wall. Metal, paper-filled patient charts hung in racks on either side of the opening, and I sat in the middle. With easy access to what passed for technology at the time: A black phone with buttons along the bottom for multiple lines, a manual “imprinter” similar to a credit card machine, pencils, pens, and multiple medical forms.

I performed my duties manually. Computers at the time filled entire room(s), and computer entry required stacks of pre-punched cards.

Patients had credit-card-sized metal plates containing their information. Every evening, I stamped the plate for each patient onto a carbon-pack nursing notes form. To be added to their individual charts the next day. When doctors made rounds, either they or the nurse would hand-write new orders in the chart, and I would transcribe them. Meaning I had to create the necessary lab/x-ray forms, medication pharmacy orders, central supply requests for supplies, and such. All of which had to be stamped with the patent’s data and filled in by hand. I also had to handwrite the actual medication and/or treatment orders on small 1.5 x 2.5 inch (I’m guessing), color-coded cards for the nursing staff to carry out the orders.

I can still see Earlene balancing her medication tray with those little cards lined up – green for prn (as needed) meds, pink for HS (hour of sleep) meds, blue for scheduled meds, BID (twice a day), TID (three times a day), and on and on – with little medication cups in line with the appropriate cards for the appropriate patients. There were also yellow and white cards. I think the white cards where for treatments like bandage changing. But I don’t remember. Neither do Earlene and Fredia. Who knows what the yellow cards indicated?

Aside from our busy – and often intense – duties, we laughed and enjoyed each other. We became friends outside of the hospital. Earlene had two young children, Bill and Annie. Fredia had KoWanda. Annie and KoWanda were born in ’71 and were adorable little girlfriends. Bill was a little older and just as adorable. They played together often, and I was privileged to be involved at times. For some reason, I would sing the Alka Seltzer “Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz” song, and they’d collapse in giggles.

A lot of life transpired between West Surgery coworkers and the gray-haired ladies settled into our favorite McAlister’s Deli booth. Faye, Pearl and Thelma are no longer with us. And while Earlene and I maintained some contact over the years, I had not seen Fredia in five decades. It could have been five days.

On that initial lunch date, the connection was instantaneous and cemented with a simple act. At the table, Fredia pulled her wallet from her purse. Or maybe it was her day calendar. What Earlene and I saw was the Obama motif, and both of us oohed and aahed.

“I knew this bond was for real when Debbie then pulled out her phone to show pictures she’d taken of Michelle at the Ryman,” Fredia said.

In red, red Tennessee, liberals are few and far between. So we’re led to believe. In reality, our numbers are strong. We are strong. And we find each other. And sometimes reunite after 50 years.

We were hungry to share memories and catch up on the missed years. Which we’ve done for about two dozen monthly luncheons to date. A quick recap:

• Earlene left Rutherford Hospital and worked stints as an LPN at Middle Tennessee State University and a local high school before earning her RN at MTSU. She returned to Rutherford Hospital and worked throughout the hospital for several years before landing a day-shift spot in the Recovery Room. She retired from that position in 2010 when the old hospital on North University Street closed and was later torn down. She and Garey, who have been married for 58 years, have three grandchildren who call their grandparents what the couple call each other, Hon and Honey.

• In 1974, Fredia went to work for State Farm® from which she retired in 2014. (She still works part-time at Kohl’s just to get out of the house, and the extra income helps fund her passion for cruises.) She had another daughter, RaShonda, and raised her two daughters as a single mother after she and their father, Tommy, divorced. Both women are married and have successful careers. Together they have given Fredia three grandchildren.

  • Don’t believe in the depths of human connections? Kindred spirits and such? Earlene’s Annie and Fredia’s KoWanda, who didn’t know each other beyond their toddler years, both named their daughters Sydney.

• As for me, I’m here writing Debbie Does Digress. Documenting and savoring the friendship with these two amazing ladies. I worked as a professional writer for 22 years before retiring in 2021, four as a newspaper reporter and 18 as a technical writer. My catch-up includes a divorce, two children, Beth and Mac, and two lovely sons-in-law.

Bystanders at our monthly luncheons may see three septuagenarians hugging and carrying on, but I see those three young women, good friends, just starting their lives. And while straight lines, figure-eight loops, hard left turns, and squiggly spirals shaped our individual paths, they have circled around to the women we’ve become.

Where 50-year-old memories, laughs and friendship bubble to the surface with familiarity and love.

You can’t see a rain-wrapped tornado coming. You know it’s on the way – the television and phone alerts are screaming it at you. A radar indicated tornado is heading for your town, your street, your home, your family. Seek shelter immediately. Don’t be fooled. The visible rain and powerful winds may hurt, but it’s the hidden cruelty and brutality that’ll demolish your very foundation.

Donald Trump is the rain-wrapped tornado.

The first week of April began with its predictable, volatile weather. It roared in on the last day of March. In the wee a.m. hours. That was the first of three nights that week that I “slept” downstairs on my sofa. Between runs to my half-bath-under-the-stairs storm shelter. Many, many runs.

A Tornado Warning Has Been Issued For Your Area.

Take shelter immediately. On the lowest level in your home, inside room/closet/bathroom/no windows, the smaller the better. Have your phone fully charged, helmets, shoes …

I’m accustomed to storm shelter preparation. I move half of my life into the tight quarters of my functioning half bath. Purse, car keys, medications, laptop and charger (I leave my backup, external hard drive, and bicycle helmet in there at all times), Kindle and charger, phone charger (the phone stays on me), flashlight, pillows, blankets, bottles of water. I usually throw in a couple of pillows and a blanket.

I’m also attuned to the onslaught of blasting television and phone alerts that trigger my herding me and Burger, my touch-averse storm-anxiety-riddled cat, into the bathroom. Repeatedly. The latter is not always successful. This year I built a fort with a comforter and a bathroom cabinet door. He loves a fort. He crawled into it willingly. A few times. Progress.

The Tornado Warning Is Discontinued.

I slept for a few hours on the sofa. My home had been spared the night’s ravenous damage. I was fortunate. Not everyone in my state of Tennessee and surrounding areas were. I am sorry for their losses and difficulties.

That evening, an unrelated and unexpected ray of sunshine emerged. Senator Cory Booker. At 7 p.m. on March 31, he began a filibuster on the U.S. Senate floor. To prevent the Republican senators from doing harm. For 25 hours and 5 minutes, Booker spoke about who we are and who we can continue to be.

I watched the last couple of hours on the evening of April 1 as he broke the filibuster record of racist Senator Strom Thurmond. I wept with pride and hope. I slept upstairs in my bed that night. All night.

Wednesday, April 2 was my birthday. And Burger’s. He turned 8 in human years, 48 in cat years. It’s 72 for me. Any way you look at it. We had a lovely morning. Lots of greetings from friends and family. Mother Nature’s April showers plus violent atmospheric activity returned that night.

A Tornado Watch Has Been Issued In Your Area Effective Until 6 a.m. Thursday.

Earlier, in the afternoon, Trump appropriated our birthday for his self-named Liberation Day. When he introduced his supercell tornadic tariffs and their salvation-wrapped destruction.

Donald Trump is the supercell tornado.

A Tornado Warning Has Been Issued for our entire country for the foreseeable future. As the President of the United States of America continually lofts debris across our beloved America. Destroying freedom, the rule of law, and basic humanity in its path. With each deranged, black-Sharpie Debris Signature sprawled on lawless orders he hasn’t read.

Extreme Danger. Hail Cores. Donut Holes. Hook Echoes (that tail-like projection jutting from the back right side of the supercell). Winds blowing toward the radar in green and blowing away in red, turning into fatal spins of Trump chaos.

He is the lowest. There is no safe shelter to seek.

A Flash Flood Warning Has Been Issued. The conditions are set for rapid, heavy rainfall at isolated points anywhere within the country. The depth of these flash floods can’t be judged by the naked eye. Assume they are deadly.

Flood Warning Has Been Issued. Prolonged rainfall throughout America can quickly cause rivers, streams, lakes to rise and overflow their banks. Homes, schools, churches, towns will be underwater. High death toll predicted. Evacuate. Move to higher ground.

Donald Trump is the flood.

Turn Around, Don’t Drown.

She didn’t talk as I followed her from the medical office waiting room to the dreaded scale. I made the usual joke of, “I must remove these heavy shoes” as I slid off my sandals. I could unfortunately read the digital weight, but I had to ask her my height after she told me to “turn around, back up.” As I feared, I’d shrunk an inch. Then she told me to sit down, and she took my blood pressure. I had to ask for the result.

She led me to the examination room. Then she surprised me with her first attempt at social interaction, “Are you having a nice day?”

“So far,” I said. I climbed onto the end of the examination table. She sat at a desk across the room.

“How do you pronounce your last name?” she asked.

I quickly replied but intuitively decided not to go into my usual: it’s long, but it’s pronounced just like it’s spelled. My absolute best decision.

“I’m dyslexic,” she offered and proceeded to explain. “It’s about sound. I can read but have trouble pronouncing the words, reading out loud. Names are particularly hard.”

Unprompted, she continued her story. When she started school, her private school teachers told her to “just do it” when she couldn’t read in class. They told her parents she wasn’t trying. Her parents took her out of private school in third grade and transferred her to public school.

Public school immediately diagnosed her as dyslexic and further pinpointed the specifics. She couldn’t pronounce/speak what she saw in writing. She credits their therapy for saving her. They had her read a paragraph silently, then try to read it out loud. And then she repeated the process over and over until she could read out loud. Each time.

Also, her public-school teachers recommended that her parents have her evaluated for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). They did. She was. She got the treatment she needed. The private school had told her parents she just wouldn’t sit still and behave.

This young woman is the poster child for public school advantages – even though her parents began her education in what they must have assumed was the preferable private school. But private schools and their evil first cousins, charter schools, often do not have the talent, resources or desire to teach “outside-the-norm” children. Public schools do. Or did. If only we can keep them alive and funded. Trust experienced educators’ judgment over politicized school boards and the Trump Administration.

I went to public school. I sent my children to public school. And my nurse’s parents put their child’s needs first and sent her to public school.

My nurse’s story was interrupted when the practitioner came in and examined me. Determined she needed to take a biopsy of a suspicious discoloration on my neck. She left the room so the nurse could prepare the area.

The nurse cleaned the site and injected Lidocaine to numb it. It’s on the back of my neck, so I couldn’t see what she was doing. But I wasn’t worried. I was in awe of this young woman. She had come a long way from a scared third grader who couldn’t read to an educated, licensed nurse prepping me for a biopsy.

She deserved and received my admiration and respect.

We lost an American icon last year just two days before the presidential election. The enormity of his passing slipped through precarious fingers grasping for hope. But late Tuesday, Nov. 5, when fear engulfed me and tightened my lungs against their vital purpose, I turned to him. On Netflix. To “The Greatest Night in Pop” documentary about the creation of the “We Are the World” anthem. Which I watched for my 20^th (at least) time. To remember hope and love and the unity of kindred spirits in compassion and empathy. In art. In song. Shepherded by that icon, Quincy Jones.

The “We Are the World” phenomenon came together on Jan. 28, 1985. None of us were aware of it on that day. But we now know that magic was in the air. The power of love rose from an LA studio, pulsed across the sky, and first rained down around the globe when the record was released on March 7. And again, spectacularly, on Good Friday, April 5, 1985, when it aired simultaneously on thousands of radio stations in at least 25 countries at 10:50 a.m. EST.

I had my own magic going on at the time. A week before the record was released. Exactly a month after it was created. On Feb. 28, 1985, in Louisville, Kentucky at 2:15 p.m. When I held my newborn son, Mac, in my arms. The earthy connection to other mothers. The universal energy of unconditional love. As I experienced four years earlier. On Dec. 20, 1980, in Memphis, Tennessee at 8:40 a.m. When I kissed my first-born, my precious daughter.

As a young mother, my world was narrow and focused on these two tiny humans who needed me. Whom I needed. The responsibility for their health, safety, happiness, education, moral cores at times overwhelmed and terrified me. I doubted myself daily. But the joy! The exhilaration of firsts. Smiles. Teeth. Steps. Words. Sentences. Drawings. Writings. Friends. Halloweens. Christmases. And the seconds, and the thirds, and the fourths …

As it should have been.

As my children grew, so did I. In the expansion of my love and consideration for all children. It does take a village. And a country. And a world.

There comes a time
When we heed a certain call
When the world must come together as one
There are people dying
Oh, and it’s time to lend a hand to life
The greatest gift of all …
… We are the world
We are the children
We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving …*

I’m not sure when I first became aware of the song and its specific purpose to combat famine in Ethiopia. It’s one of those things I just seemed to know. But I didn’t know its tremendous success in raising money to feed the world’s hungry children until I watched the documentary four decades later.

The gifted individuals who lent their voices to “We Are the World” were driven, professional, ambitious musicians focused on their own careers. Holding their own in a fiercely competitive world.

As it should have been.

But on that night, they followed Quincy Jones’s handwritten note taped to the studio’s entrance: Check Your Egos at the Door. And the exquisite voices of 46 diverse, equal and inclusive artists melded in love and compassion. From Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson, who wrote the song, to Billy Joel to Stevie Wonder to Cyndi Lauper to Smokey Robinson to Kenny Rogers to Dionne Warwick. And on and on and on. They gave their all for the children. Never expecting nor desiring gratitude, or submission, or idolatrous devotion, or votes at a ballet box. The results they sang for were children’s full bellies and bright eyes.

… There's a choice we're making
We're saving our own lives
It's true we'll make a better day, just you and me …*

I am in such awe of the talent and generosity each time I watch the show. Bob Dylan is the one artist whose performance absolutely slayed me. He was fidgety, obviously uncomfortable, and when it came his turn to sing his solo lines (only one or two), he froze. Mumbled into the mic. Looked lost and frightened. In all fairness, each of them had to deliver in front of all the others. It must have been intimidating. But he just couldn’t do it. Stevie Wonder took him aside and, mimicking Dylan’s own voice, sang his lines to him. And then Dylan sang them back. He returned to the mic, all smiles, and sang them perfectly. He smiled and laughed for the rest of the show. I realized two things: One, I had never seen Bob Dylan smile and laugh. Two, what an admirable, humble person he is – to allow himself to be vulnerable for the children.

That was 40 years ago. Now, I can’t understand or abide that half of my country sees that beautiful, diverse, equal, and inclusive group of musicians as somehow lesser. Even unwanted. I can’t abide that so many people in my America allow hatred and bigotry to rule their lives. And our country.

As it should never be.

Rest in peace, Quincy Jones. You were so much to so many, especially to this 71-year-old white, Southern woman when she most needed your talent and heart. And hope.

*We Are the World/lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Songwriters: Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson

“How many of you were offended by this book?” Sandy began our recent Zoom meeting to discuss her book club pick, The Wisdom Pattern by Richard Rohr. Most of us raised our hands. A lively and thoughtful discussion followed.

That’s how we Bookslingers roll.

Karen and Susan formed the book club sometime in 2011. The two criteria for being eligible to join: You had to be female and liberal. Susan, Peggy, Diana, and I have been in from the beginning. Over the years, women came on, some on and off, some just off, some moved away, and Sharon died. (See Debbie Does Digress, Writers’ Unpublished Treasures.) Our current lineup, in addition to the original four mentioned above, includes Kathy, Connie and Sandy.

Perhaps our most interesting and beloved on-and-off member was Casey. That’s her, first on the left in the photo above. She was Karen’s student at Middle Tennessee State University (MTSU). From China. When she first joined our group, she had a pocket translator that her fingers flew across during meetings. Translating our Southern expressions and universal curse words into Chinese was a challenge. She became quite fluent over her few years with us.

Casey is the reason we have a professional photo. She requested it as our graduation gift to her.

When we began, our routine involved meeting at a member’s house each month. For a meal and book discussion. The host provided an entrée, and the rest of us brought sides. Except for the person who chose the book that month. She brought the dessert. That routine evolved over the years to meeting just at Susan’s, then Kathy’s. We decided each month as to who brought what.

First Kathy moved away. Then Sharon. COVID moved in. Enter Zoom. We’ve been meeting online since then. From our own homes. With an occasional gathering at Bar Louie’s in Murfreesboro.

To date, we have read 150 books. That’s not quite 12 books per year. We skipped a month here and there. Usually Decembers. We weren’t diligent about keeping records in the beginning, so the list below may be incomplete/out of order. Over the years, we improved the process (Google doc), and future Bookslingers Literary Listicle posts will be spot on.

We take turns, in a specific order, choosing the month’s book. Our choices are eclectic. Deep to fanciful. Dark to life affirming. Difficult to easy, breezy. Fiction and nonfiction. I’ve read each one, whether I liked it or not. For all of us, it’s mutual respect and commitment to the process. That’s the magic. I learn something from every book, and I’m always glad I read it. Yes, Connie, even Hillbilly Elegy.

I don’t pretend to remember details about each book listed here as our first 30 reads. But I’ll give you a hint of what they’re about. And for the many that have really stuck with me, I’ll share my thoughts. Briefly.

• The Help by Kathryn Stockett
  Fiction. This was my pick. For dessert I brought fudge pie.

• The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander
  Nonfiction. It’s incarceration.

• Life After Life by Kate Atkinson
  Fiction. Fascinating and unique. With a small change to the story, the main character, who died, lives instead. And the story goes in a totally different direction. Repeatedly.

• Lying by Sam Harris
  Nonfiction. White lies are just as damaging as the big ones.

• The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot
  Nonfiction. Lacks’s cancer cells, taken and grown without her permission, changed medicine forever. But her family never knew until Skloot delved into the truth.

• Waiting for Soon by Debbie Mac
  Fiction. I wrote this novel and published it as a Kindle ebook. The inspiration was a real event when I worked as a newspaper reporter and received a death threat. A greeting card in the mail. With Deepest Sympathy for the Loss of Your Child. Signed: SOON. I took that and spun it into a fictional tale. Unlike reality, it was cathartic.

• An Invisible Thread by Laura Schroff and Alex Tresniowski
  Nonfiction. Subtitle: The True Story of an 11-Year-Old Panhandler, a Busy Sales Executive, and an Unlikely Meeting with Destiny. Don’t remember specifics, but sounds interesting, huh?

• Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner
  Nonfiction. Contains a revelation regarding crime in our country. One that I had never considered. You’ll have to read it to learn what it is.

• Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl
  Nonfiction. Deep. Not easy reading. Frankl survived the Holocaust by searching for the positive and personal meaning in everything he endured. He later used this insight to establish his own method of psychotherapy.

• How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran
  Nonfiction, memoir. Hilarious and relatable journey through female-mess.

• Che by Jon Lee Anderson
  Nonfiction. A biography of the Latin American revolutionary, Che Guevara.

• The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert
  Fiction. Everyone loved this book except me. It is a woman-affirming novel. I’ll certainly give it that. But Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love left a bad taste in my mouth, and I’ve never warmed to her work.

• Flight Behavior by Barbara Kingsolver
  Fiction. The author alone is reason to read this. I have struggled reading some of her books but never regretted the effort.

• Zeitoun by Dave Eggers
  Nonfiction. The harrowing story of a left-behind Hurricane Katrina survivor.

• Facing the Music by Larry Brown
  Fiction. A book of short stories – brave, brutal, brilliant. Brown died too soon. In his 50s. I treasure everything he wrote.

• Saints at the River by Ron Rash
  Fiction. May be my absolutely favorite writer. And this is my favorite of his.

• The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd
  Fiction. A young girl. Her personal slave. Each oppressed in very different ways. Or maybe not so different? How do they learn to fly?

• Freedom by Jonathan Franzen
  Fiction. A friend once told me that Huckleberry Finn was his favorite book until he read this one.

• The Illuminati by Adam Weishaupt
  Nonfiction. Basically, the history of the Illuminati.

• Suttree by Cormac McCarthy
  Fiction. The only Cormac McCarthy book I’ve read. I’m glad it was this one.

• Escape from Camp 14 by Blaine Harden
  Nonfiction. The North Korean who got away. My confusion: North Korea does not have enough electricity to operate 24 hours a day. Even Kim Jong Un is plunged into darkness for a few hours each day. But the prison camps are wrapped in electric fences that are live 24/7? And they experience only occasional, isolated outages. Go figure.

• The Wayfinders by Wade Davis
  Nonfiction. Subtitle: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World.

• Push by Sapphire
  Fiction. Precious Jones, dismissed as a “Harlem casualty,” learns to write. By telling her harsh story, we come to love her. As does she.

• The Tenth Parallel by Eliza Griswold
  Nonfiction. Subtitle: Dispatches From the Fault Line Between Christianity and Islam.

• Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
  Nonfiction, graphic memoir. Growing up in Iran during the Islamic Revolution. Her words and drawings are mesmerizing.

• Ruined by Lynn Nottage
  Nonfiction, play. A brutal drama about the brutal lives of women in war-torn Congo.

• I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron
  Nonfiction, memoir. As funny and poignant as you would expect her to be. I didn’t know until I read this book that she was once married to Carl Bernstein of Watergate fame.

• Bossypants by Tina Fey
  Nonfiction, memoir. I now know how she got that scar on her face.

• It's Even Worse Than It Looks by Thomas E. Mann and Norman J. Ornstein
  Nonfiction. Subtitle: How the American Constitutional System Collided with the New Politics of Extremism. This was written in 2012. Enough said.

• The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon
  Nonfiction. All about depression. The first chapter begins, “Depression is the loss of love.”

My ultrafiltered, fat-free milk and January expire today.

The milk resided in my refrigerator for three months. I rarely use it up before the expiration/best-buy date. I’ve had it expire even before I’ve broken the seal. I need it on hand. Just in case. I’m not a regular milk drinker. Although, when I am sick, my go-to comfort food is toast and chocolate milk made with lots of Hersey’s syrup. I rarely cook. But I need milk on hand for that occasional pan of cornbread.

January lingered for 31 calendar days. That’s about 100 days in Debbie years.

I hate January. All Januarys. When the ball drops each year, my energy and concentration levels splat all over Times Square. Figuratively. In reality, they settle at my feet and repeatedly trip me as they climb their way back through my body. Struggling toward my brain. It takes them until March. Usually.

January 2025 exponentially exceeded my morose expectations. So much so, I applied an overriding adjective: brutal.

The Google-searched brutal definitions jumped all over the place. From bad or unpleasant to punishingly hard to savagely violent. My brutal January fell into three basic areas. Each claiming unique brutal synonyms.

1. Weather: Harsh. Severe.

There’s a saying in Tennessee that if you do not like the weather, wait a few hours. Or something like that. We can count on it being cold in January, but it comes and goes. Temperatures from below freezing to the mid-50s back to single digits up to the 60s then a plunge to 20 degrees. And there is an occasional snow event. Yikes!

This January, for days on end, the temperatures were super frigid overnight necessitating dripping water faucets. Then, daytime temperatures sometimes rose to almost freezing and sometimes to 50 degrees. And there was snow. Predicted to be nine inches of accumulation. Almost unheard of. The frenetic anticipation and preparation for snow result in more stress than the actual precipitation and its aftermath. You stock your larder with enough food for an untold number of days of isolation. Foods you don’t want to eat but that will keep you alive. I stay put for two days, and then I’m off to Panera bread for food I don’t have to fix.

To be fair, I live in a town where the streets are salted, well-traveled, and passable much sooner than the rural country roads which can keep schools closed for a week. Nevertheless, my outings are short. I mostly stay inside in Januarys, where I deal with unrelenting dry heat that makes my skin itch and my nose run.

On January 10, I awoke to a beautiful winter landscape. Less snow than predicted. Only about six inches.

By bedtime, I was heartbroken.

2. Loss: Bald. Grim. Rough. Heavy.

My dear, sweet nephew Mike died. He was only 60 when a vicious, ferocious, heinous cancer knocked on his door for the third time and took him from us. Primarily from his loving wife, children, and grandchildren, who gave him the perfect life that he so deserved. I am forever grateful to them.

When I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, I moved in with my brother and his new blended family to help take care of their children. His wife brought two sons to the marriage, Charles and Chris. My brother brought Mike, who was six at the time. It was an adjustment for all of us, which I didn’t understand at the time.

One summer day – or maybe it was just a fall weekend, I can’t remember – a friend of mine and I took the boys to a school playground. So they could run around. Swing, slide, climb. We sat on a bench and talked. I looked up and saw a dog jump on Mike, and he started to cry. I ran to him, shooed the dog away, and hugged him. He clung to me and sobbed. I didn’t get why he was so upset. The dog hadn’t hurt him. But I instinctively knew he needed to cry. So, I just held him.

Now, as the mother of two grown children with my age transposed to 71, I totally get it. And that memory is precious.

I visited him several weeks before he passed. With my niece and his same-age cousin, Trisha. We spent an afternoon with him and his wonderful wife, Venessa, reminiscing, laughing and crying. Before we left, I sat across from him and held his face in my hands. Told him how much I love him.

That memory is precious.

Now, he is buried in our family cemetery, four graves down from his grandfather, Papa Sam. My father. Who was born on January 10. Many, many, many years ago.

There is no applicable segue to the next brutal January event. So, I won’t try.

3. Presidential Inauguration.

Brutal by definition: Suitable to one who lacks intelligence, sensitivity or compassion. Befitting a brute.

Brutal by origin, from Latin: Brutus – dull, stupid.

Brutal by synonyms: Cruel, bloodthirsty, vicious, barbaric, barbarous, murderous, cold-blooded, hard-hearted, ruthless, callous, heartless, merciless, pitiless, remorseless, sadistic, unfeeling, inhuman, heinous, monstrous, abominable, atrocious, vile, uncivilized, bestial, beastly, inhuman, onerous, stiff.

I purchased a fresh half-gallon of milk. January can’t be replaced or forgotten.

February? Et tu, Brute?

It was Christmas season 2001. I had just purchased two of Jimmy Carter’s Christmas in Plains books. As a present for myself and one other. I didn’t know who I would give the extra one to, but I thought it made a nice gift.

Then I read in the newspaper that he would be signing books in Nashville. I was so excited. I could buy several more books, have them signed, and give them to everyone on my Christmas list. I assumed he would be at the Davis Kidd bookstore or maybe at the public library.

I was wrong.

The book-signing event took place at the Charlotte Pike Walmart. Of course. Where else would the humblest former U.S. President choose? But my head was spinning with questions. How would the establishment handle the crowds? How would the Secret Service handle the establishment? How long would the lines be? Should we get there early?

My daughter, Beth, and I pulled into the Walmart parking lot a few minutes before the publicized time of noon. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Minimal problem finding a parking space. No line streaming from the door out into the parking lot. Once inside, more ordinariness. No men in dark suits with earbuds, talking into their wrists. No uniformed police. Nothing but shoppers and store clerks going about their business.

“Excuse me,” I stopped a clerk. “Is President Carter signing his book here today?”

“Yes, there’s a sign over there.”

And there it was. Between the Duracell battery display and a rack of $19.96 blue jeans. A handmade sign. A red poster board with writing apparently from a regular ink pen:

President Jimmy Carter

Autographs This Way

(Large arrow pointing to the right – darkened with multiple repeats of the pen.)

Located at the Radio Grill

In the back of store

Media Sign in at Book Dept

(12:00 pm scribbled in the upper right corner.)

We followed the arrow, and, sure enough, there he was. Sitting in a metal folding chair at a cafeteria table. Several aides surrounded him and directed the few of us gathered around. (I still saw no earbuds.) We were able to purchase additional books and were told he would sign as many as we had. Only his name. No personal inscriptions. Absolutely no stopping for pictures with him.

He smiled at Beth and me and asked how we were doing. It was an honor to be in his presence.

And we improvised on pictures after he signed our books.

The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity needed to be memorialized even if out of focus and over exposed. Every person who received a signed book from us that Christmas also got copies of the photos.

I never want to minimize the exceptional life and the terrible loss of this extraordinary man by telling a frivolous story. But this experience wasn’t frivolous to me. It was and is precious and dear. Because Jimmy Carter is precious and dear to me. I’m so sad that we lost him. He made the world such a better place for 100 years.

Where is our next Jimmy Carter? We’re so in need of them.

Cute little fellow? That assessment falls into the eye-of-the-beholder category. I do not like sock monkeys.

My aversion to the little stuffed critters has nothing to do with living, breathing primates or recycled footwear. It especially has nothing to do with the original boy band who awaited the last train to Clarksville. It has everything to do with a particularly offensive individual who gave me a sock monkey as a gift. A person whom I’ll forever associate with that red-heel smile.

When my Debbie friends spot one on a Debbie Day of antiquing, they sound the warning, “Sock monkey alert!” So that I can look the other way. Step around it.

I must digress here for a bit of Debbie Day history.

I moved back to Middle Tennessee in the late 1990s and reconnected with my best-friend-from-first-grade, Ig, aka Debbie. I lived out-of-state while we were having kids and all that stuff, but we picked back up as if we had lived right next door all along. And we launched Debbie Days. Days spent talking, laughing, eating, and antiquing. In the beginning, always on Saturdays, and mostly in Bell Buckle.

Talk and laughter trump everything. Random shoppers often stop us to say we’re having too much fun. Or a fellow diner comes to our table, “I don’t want you to think I’m nosy, but I so enjoyed watching you. Makes me miss my best friend.”

We’ve had a few mishaps along the way. Well, many over the last 20+ years.

The first occurred early on. It was a cold, rainy Saturday. I pulled into a parking space on the Bell Buckle “strip” and waited for Ig. The car heater fogged my windows, and my Barry Manilow CD competed with the pounding rain. I called Ig. Just to see if everything was okay. She answered the phone, and I turned down Barry.

“I’m still at home. I left the sunroof open, and my car is soaked inside,” she said.

“Well, don’t feel too bad. I just realized I put my turtleneck sweater on backward. The tag is scratching my throat!” I responded. “Are you going to make it?”

“Yes. I’m coming in another car.”

While she was driving to Bell Buckle, I pulled my arms out of the sleeves inside the sweater, and turned the whole thing around right there in my car. Then worked my arms back in. Hopefully unseen through the foggy windows. We couldn’t allow minor blips such as a soggy seat or the need to adjust clothing in a car stand in the way of Debbie Day!

We added a third Debbie in 2011. Ig and I, along with two additional Debbies, formed the food committee for our 40^th high school reunion. We picked a Debbie to lead the committee and dubbed her “Head Debbie.” It turned out she is as into antiques as we are. We became the Debbie Days’ Debbie trio. And the best of friends all around.

Over the years, we’ve branched out beyond Bell Buckle. Over the Hill Antiques in Readyville, The Shops at Main and McGrew in Shelbyville, and Four Sisters Antiques & Vintage in Murfreesboro are a few of our favorites. We also added our gift ritual: On or around our birthdays, the birthday Debbie gets to pick out anything she wants (within our designated price limit), and the other two buy it – together or individually – as her gift. At Christmas, we each pick out what we want, and the others buy it.

We bring diverse interests to Debbie Day shopping. Ig loves Halloween (anything witchy, especially caldrons) and Christmas (blow molds have high priority). Also, chairs. Always chairs. Head Debbie is the most sophisticated in her tastes and knowledge of all things vintage/antique. She introduced us to snack plates with cups and now we see them everywhere. I’m always on the lookout out for mismatched china and first-edition books.

I often get my kids’ birthday and Christmas gifts on Debbie Days. My best find ever was the mid-century modern bar I bought for Beth and Jerry, my daughter and her husband. I came upon it at The Shops of Main and McGrew, texted a picture to Beth with a “Christmas present?” message. She said yes, and when I got back to it, another shopper was sniffing around. I just grabbed the tag and headed to the checkout counter.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Debbie Day themes. There is always a theme. Not planned but based on something specific we see all day long. In various forms. In every shop. And sometimes on the street or in a restaurant. Sock monkeys are not considered a theme. They are everywhere and meant to be avoided.

Rotary telephones are a common theme. See one, we’ll see 10 or 20. We like to dial our childhood telephone numbers and listen to the ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch of the dial returning to its starting position. The aforementioned snack plates with built-in cup holders are a frequent theme. Now that Ig and I know what they are, they seem to pop up on every shelf. There have been a few obscure themes. Camels come to mind.

Roosters are the most consistent theme. By far. They live in every shop we visit. And even on the sidewalks out front. But we don’t call them roosters. We use the one-syllable, gender-specific euphemism.

What brought these c*#&s, oops, roosters to our attention in the first place? I was visiting Beth and Jerry in Mobile to see Beth’s performance in “Little Shop of Horrors.” She was one of the doo-wop girls and was busy at the theater. Jerry, tasked with entertaining me, took me on a tour of Mobile. We came across this giant metal rooster sculpture on the front porch of a house, and he went on and on about how much he loved it. Light bulb. I was just getting to know Jerry, and now I knew something he liked.

Back in Tennessee on Debbie Days, we began the lookout for metal roosters. They were prolific and expensive. I finally found a small, affordable one and bought it for Jerry. For Christmas. He loved it. The next Christmas, I sent him an “ugly Christmas sweater” with a big rooster on the front. You can imagine the jokes. I no longer buy my son-in-law gifts that are rooster related.

But I didn’t totally learn my lesson. I purchased rooster pepper shakers last Christmas for Mac and Conor, my son and son-in-law.

Mishaps continue. Recently, Ig and I were browsing in Bell Buckle’s Phillips General Store Antiques, talking more than shopping. Comfortable in the familiar surroundings. Head Debbie had gone to another store and was to meet us there. Instead, she called me.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“We’re in Phillips. Where are you?”

“I’m outside on the sidewalk. Phillips is closed.”

Ig and I stopped and looked around. We had not noticed, but we were the only people in the shop. Even Billy, the owner, was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” we said into the void. No answer returned.

We made our way toward the front past a ladder stacked with sock monkeys. The door was unlocked, but we couldn’t lock it behind us. We felt weird just leaving it like that. We walked around the corner to another Phillips-owned shop, Bluebird Antiques, to tell them what had happened. They weren’t concerned. So, we turned back and ran into Billy.

“I was in there, I heard you,” he said. “No problem.”

He knows the Debbies.

We celebrated our Christmas 2024 Debbie Day just last week, a Friday this time. In Murfreesboro.

Merry Christmas from the Debbies!

Two years ago, the day before Thanksgiving, my fiftyish, driveway-sharing neighbor and I pulled in at the same time. He began unloading a trunkful of groceries plus a few suitcases. I gathered my blood pressure medication refill and a Panera Bread to-go sandwich from the front seat.

“Hey, how are you?” he asked as I closed my car door. A woman I had never seen came out of his condo and grabbed a grocery bag. She didn’t speak to me nor did my neighbor introduce her.

“I’m fine. You?” Our usual, neighbors-not-friends-barely-acquaintances exchange as I sifted through my key chain for the door key.

“Do you like turkey?” He came around my car.

“Yes.”

“Well, we have all this food, and it’s just my girlfriend and me.”

Uh-oh. He’s gonna ask me to join them for Thanksgiving dinner. I began formulating a tactful, negative response in my head.

“Can we bring you a plate?” he asked.

I am not that woman.

I am not a shut-in, incapable of social interaction or feeding myself. I am that woman who lives alone. Happily. Gratefully. Intentionally. Retired. Divorced with two grown children who live hundreds of miles away.

“That is so kind of you,” I responded to my generous neighbor on Thanksgiving Eve. “But I have plans.”

Those plans included spending Thanksgiving Day alone. Peaceful. Stress free. Talking with my kids by phone. No turkey. No cranberries. Followed by a Friday spent with my best friend, Ig. We started the day with breakfast in Shelbyville, our hometown. The man at the next table smiled each time I looked up from my pancakes and coffee. Later, while antiquing in Bell Buckle, we repeatedly ran into and interacted with an attractive man out shopping with two teenaged boys.

“That guy’s hitting on you,” Ig whispered as we left one shop.

“I know,” I responded.

I am that woman.

I spent last Thanksgiving with new family. Bri, Mary Pat and Conor. At their picturesque farm near Athens, Georgia.

I must digress to explain how these lovely people came into my life. Conor is now my son-in-law. He and my son, Mac, married just last month in a spectacular ceremony at the Atlanta Botanical Garden where Conor’s mother is the President and CEO.

I first met Conor’s parents in October 2023. At a delicious Atlanta restaurant. The day before Mac’s and Connor’s engagement party. With my daughter and son-in-law, Beth and Jerry. And, of course, Mac and Conor. Once we got initial introductions and verification that we were non-Trumpers out of the way, the seven of us gathered around the table to learn more.

“Have you read ‘Lessons in Chemistry?’” Mary Pat asked.

“Yes. I loved it!” I responded.

“No,” from Beth who has a degree in biochemistry. “Mom keeps telling me I need to.”

“Six-Thirty,” I added. “My favorite character in the book.”

Mary Pat explained to everyone that Six-Thirty is a dog. Whom the protagonist, chemist Elizabeth Zott, found one night at her back door at 6:30 p.m.

Mary Pat’s next question was, “Do you know Margaret Renkl?”

“Not personally, but I read her,” I responded and explained to the table. “She has a column in The New York Times and has written a couple of books. Oh, and she lives in Nashville.”

“She gave a presentation at the garden,” Mary Pat said. I can’t remember if it was that day or the day before. “She has a new book out.”

Small world.

Over the course of the meal, I learned that I was giving a speech at the next day’s party. I was fine with it. I had already written, at least in my head, what I would say at the wedding reception. I’d just use it and come up with something else for the wedding.

I am that woman.

For Thanksgiving 2023, they welcomed me into their home where Bri’s prolific art was on full display. From his trademark papier-mâché fish sculptures to collage boxes. And outside, a Romani wagon! Which he constructed in their backyard during COVID isolation. It exudes his talent from its colorful exterior to every inch of its cozy interior palette, décor, and furnishings. Including a bunk for unique guest accommodations.

I was also embraced by their two canine family members, River and Hudson. Hudson and I bonded when he climbed into my lap on the deck where we humans enjoyed cocktails around the outdoor fireplace. It was still a bit chilly, so I wrapped him in my coat and a blanket. We kept each other toasty!

And on Thanksgiving Day, I met family friend, Dorothy. She and I immediately connected over our love for MSNBC and everything liberal.

My fondest memory of the holiday was when Mac, Conor and I introduced Mary Pat to the game “Heads Up.” We used the app on my phone. We played and laughed for hours. Bri, who chose to sit out the game, nevertheless enjoyed the laughter.

“You sound just like the laugh track on a television sit com,” he said after several of our outbursts. And we did.

I was and am so thankful for the hospitality and love shown me. And for the laughter. And for my Poise products.

I am that woman.

NOTE: I was invited back to Athens for this Thanksgiving. It was hard to turn down. But I have plans here in Tennessee. A 53^rd high school reunion. Why 53^rd? Our 50^th graduation anniversary hit during the height of COVID. It took us three years to agree to a when-and-where. Plus, we were born in 1953. Sorta poetic. We’re losing friends at too fast a pace, and this may well be our last formal reunion. I feel the weight of that. I am that woman.

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, is once again hard at work saving Quebec, Canada, and the world. In “The Grey Wolf,” Louise Penny’s 19^th novel in the Gamache series. I have read all the previous books, and when I open a new one, I feel right at home in the small village of Three Pines. At the bistro, sipping hot chocolate by the fireplace with the whole cast of characters, who’ve become my old friends. Including the cantankerous poet, Ruth, and her pet duck, Rosa, who quacks, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

I’m not finished with the novel, but I’ve already learned a profound truth. Gamache explained a native Cree fable about the two wolves at war within each of us. The grey wolf that strives to be strong, compassionate, wise enough to be forgiving. And the black wolf, who battles “… to be vengeful. To forget no wrong. To forgive no slight. To attack first. To be cruel and cunning and brutal to friends and enemies alike. To spare no one …”  

Which wolf wins? The one we feed.

Fall brings cool, crisp air, red and golden crunchy leaves, dazzling blue skies, and books. Lots and lots of books. Some of my favorite authors, including Louise Penny, drop new titles this time of year. To enjoy on the porch with the sun on the page. Or late at night, snuggled in bed, as one more chapter turns into one more chapter and one more chapter while the clock silently slips into a.m. digits.

My fall reading list below is up-to-date, even though not all the books have made their way to my bedside table or Kindle. Yet. They are mystery/thriller/suspense/crime stories. They include dead bodies. Many are the next book in a series. My particular weakness. But each book in each series easily stands alone. I’ve listed the books by publication dates, from September to November. I marked with an asterisk (*) the ones I’ve finished or are in progress.

• Death at the Sign of the Rook by Kate Atkinson (Sept. 3)
  I discovered Kate Atkinson with her 2013 “Life After Life.” When I find a writer I like, I follow them forward and look back for previous books. Atkinson never disappoints. I latched onto her private investigator Jackson Brodie series, which began with “Case Histories” (published in 2004). “Death at the Sign of the Rook” is the sixth book in the series. And involves art theft, aristocrats, and murder mystery games. Oh, my.

• Here One Moment* by Liane Moriarty (Sept. 10)
  Creepy. Eerie. Un-put-downable. A strange, elderly woman walks down the aisle of an about-to-land plane and tells several passengers the age they will die and the cause. Including an infant whom she says will drown when he’s 7 years old. We follow each one. And wait with them. For the inevitable. Or not.

• Tell Me Everything* by Elizabeth Strout (Sept. 10)
  I once told a fellow book nerd, that when I begin an Elizabeth Strout novel, “I just want to climb inside and live there.” In “Tell me Everything,” her most endearing characters, Olive Kitteridge and Lucy Barton, come together with their supporting casts, including Bob Burgess and Lucy’s ex-husband, William. In Cosby, Maine. Following the Covid epidemic. Those of us who have trailed these characters through multiple books and one television series will feel right at home. For those who haven’t read Strout’s previous books, you’ll meet new friends. And chances are, you’ll want to seek out their in-depth stories. (NOTE: This book’s genre is literary fiction, not mystery/thriller/suspense/crime, but there is a dead body. Spoiler alert.)

• Identity Unknown by Patricia Cornwell (Oct. 8)
  Kay Scarpetta. Cornwell’s persevering medical examiner is back for her 28^th book. The series began in 1990 with “Postmortem.”  Yes, I’ve read them all. I’m itching to get this one in my hands.

• The Waiting* by Michael Connelly (Oct. 15)
  I discovered Michael Connelly three years ago when I retired. That first year, I read 30 of his books. Several series intertwined. Harry Bosch. The Lincoln Lawyer. Renee Ballard. And others. “The Waiting” is a Ballard/Bosch story. It also includes Bosch’s daughter, Maddie Bosch. (Those of you who follow Prime’s “Bosch” and “Bosch: Legacy” know her.) At this point in their careers, Renee Ballard is a detective who runs the LAPD’s cold case squad. Harry Bosch, retired from LAPD and effectively from his private investigative practice, surreptitiously helps her when he can. In “The Waiting,” Maddie Bosh joins in. Great read. Pure Michael Connelly.

• Framed by John Grisham with Jim McCloskey (Oct. 15)
  “Framed” meets the crime story criteria with a grim caveat. The stories are true. Nonfiction. Real crimes. Real people. John Grisham, a board member of the Innocence Project, along with co-writer, Jim McCloskey of Centurion Ministries, tell ten stories of wrongful conviction. This book promises to be a difficult read. And a necessary one.

• The Grey Wolf* by Louise Penny (Oct. 29)
  Louise Penny never disappoints. (See my opening paragraphs.)

• The Blue Hour by Paula Hawkins (Oct. 29)
  Hawkins grabbed my attention with “The Girl on the Train.”  I loved that book. So, I can’t wait to read “The Blue Hour.” Set on an obscure Scottish island, population one. A visitor comes to call. Asking questions. Intriguing. Plus, it’s a Good Morning America book club pick. Enough said.

• To Die For by David Baldacci (Nov. 12)
  I confess. I am a David Baldacci groupie. He defines page-turner for me. I started reading him over 20 years ago. I’ve read every book he’s written. And there are a lot. Several series. “To Die For” is the third 6:20 Man book. 6:20 refers to the 6:20 a.m. train he (Travis Devine, an Afghanistan/Iraq veteran) took every day to his Manhattan job as a financial analyst. He was/is much more. Can’t wait for the new adventure. 

Fall 2024 included a couple of events competing for my reading time. One very public. The presidential election of our lifetime. Donald Trump throws raw meat to the black wolf. Kamala Harris hand-feeds rotisserie chicken to the grey one. It has been an emotional roller-coaster of a campaign which may or may not end this week. I’m anxious and often unable to concentrate on the novel in hand.

The other event was a joyous blessing. My son, Mac, married the love of his life, Conor, just last week. At the gorgeous Atlanta Botanical Gardens. “An Evening in the Garden” was magical, sparkling, overflowing with love. I had the honor of walking Mac down the aisle and giving a toast just before we danced to “A Bridge Over Troubled Water.”  My daughter, Beth, and I also hosted the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding. Jubilant and delightful.

The planning stages and family navigations were inherently stressful. There were the inevitable 6-7 outfits ordered/returned/altered over several months. Don’t get me started on the shoes. I haven’t worn heels in a decade. But all that faded when I saw Mac’s face beaming. Beaming. With pure love and happiness.

I wrote only one Debbie Does Digress post in October. But I read books here and there. I must admit that Michael Connelly’s “The Waiting” offered escape during isolated downtimes in Atlanta.

Right now, I’m gonna finish Louise Penny. Eat my three-ingredient white chili made with leftover rotisserie chicken. Forgive a few trespassers.

The grey wolf is hungry.

The night we moved from our town of origin into the next town over – to go to college, to start the rest of our lives – someone spray painted the word SHIT across the hood of our brand-new car.

As naïve as you’d expect from a newly married couple, only 18 and 19 years old, we were mortified and hurt. Waking up that first morning to an ugly un-welcome to our new home. A tiny attic apartment. One of four carved out of an old house just a couple of blocks from campus. With our shiny 1971 Chevrolet Vega parked in the grass-overgrown, gravel side yard. Victimized by big-city crime. (Our hometown claimed a population of 12,000ish; the college town teemed with twice that!)

We loved our little car. Traded his family’s hand-me-down Oldsmobile tank and financed our first car loan. The sticker price was around $2000. Together we grossed almost $140 a week from our second-shift jobs at the local hospital. I was a unit clerk and he a male nursing technician. (I made more money per hour. Just saying.)  I can’t remember the amount of the monthly car payment, but we easily handled it.

We picked a color straight from the ‘70s palette. Not exactly sunflower yellow. Not exactly University of Tennessee orange. More like if-a-pumpkin-and-a-butternut-squash-had-a-baby orange. It had a manual transmission, bucket seats, a hatchback, and was just cool!

Until the shit began.

The handbrake exploded. Well, the handbrake handle exploded. Just parking the car, a quick tug upward, and boom! Pieces scattered onto the floorboard. Leaving no way to ensure that the car stayed put. When parked. Or from rolling backward when stopped on a hill in traffic.

A trip to the Chevrolet dealership. Parts ordered. The waiting game began.

Next, the inside rearview mirror fell off. Back to the dealership. They simply epoxied onto the windshield the disc that held the mirror and told us to wait X number of hours for the glue to dry. Then simply slide the mirror’s grooved “arm” onto the disc. We waited a few hours past X. Just to be safe. It immediately fell off again. This time bringing with it a circular piece of glass glued to the disc. Leaving an actual hole that spider-webbed across the entire windshield. Before our eyes.

Was this car for real? We didn’t have the internet for instant validation and commiseration with fellow Vega owners. (Although, real-life friends owned two. Bless their hearts.) Lemon was not yet part of vehicular vernacular. We thought there were just quirks to work out. It was the model’s first year, after all.

Today, we have the power of Google. And it had a lot to say.

In 2009, Car and Driver published a piece, “Dishonorable Mention: The 10 Most Embarrassing Award Winners in Automotive History.” The Chevrolet Vega came in at number three:

“The Chevy Vega is on everyone’s short list for Worst Car of all Time. It was so unreliable that it seemed the only time anyone saw a Vega on the road not puking out oily smoke was when it was being towed.”

And just this year, Aaron Gold wrote, “The Chevrolet Vega is remembered as one of General Motors worst cars, a troublesome rust-bucket prone to gas tank fires and melting engines.” In his piece, “A Lemon is Born: The Tragic Tale of the Chevrolet Vega.” Ironically, for MotorTrend.

If only we could have known in 1971.

The shit with our Vega did not stop with exploding handbrakes and rearview mirror mounts, but it didn’t actually melt.

I don’t remember/didn’t try to retain all the operational issues. Except one big one. We were driving down the road at dusk and turned on the headlights. The engine stopped. It wouldn’t restart. Freaked out, we turned everything off, including the radio as I recall, and tried again. It started. We continued to drive and dared to turn the lights on again. Died on the spot.

We restarted it and drove home without lights. The next morning, when we took it to the dealership, they said, “Well don’t turn on the headlights.” But they kept it yet again and found out it was the alternator, I think.

I do remember that our little Vega split its time between the car dealership and our driving pleasure. We walked or biked to class and work about as many times as we drove. A loaner car or even a rental car was never an option from the dealership. Until I threw a hissy fit at Christmas. The Vega was inoperable, in their garage, and we couldn’t walk thirty miles to see our families. How were we supposed to get there? They lent us a used Volkswagen Beetle that had holes in the floorboard. We froze, but we made it home.

Was our spray-painter hazing the new kids on the block or just warning us? The shit had to stop. And it did, in 1972, when we traded our Vega for an Oldsmobile Omega. We drove it for 12 years. With the handbrake and rearview mirror intact.