Privilege

One of the traits in other humans I dislike the most is white male privilege. It's not as evident in white females, usually because they don't have the lofty heights of wealth that men do. But once wealthy, things change for women too.

I worked for many wealthy men over the years and 90% were of that variety, believing if you only worked hard enough you could be like them. And the poorer and more ill-educated one was, the more they were believed. Hence the rise of the Maga cult in the states and the convoy here in Canada. I cancelled my Twitter account because of all the white male privilege on display on that platform as there is always misogyny lying beneath it. I always count the number of women in cabinets or in any governmental representation of those in charge. I am consistently disappointed. We, women, are 51% of the population and sometimes have zero representation or a few token women who toe the line.

I offer you this:

Pope, Council of Cardinals discussed the role of women in the Church.

Even on line in the blogger world, I see this privilege, spouting off about the "misbehavior" of others whether it's protesting against injustice or not controlling their children or lying on sidewalks drunk or homeless or both, or not dressing properly in coffee shops or god forbid, begging on the street. Those are never interested in digging down deeper as to why. Enlightenment comes with ordinary curiosity. I have never forgotten the conversations I have had with those less privileged. Often it's just one event resulting in a cataclysm of one disaster after another.

But there are exceptions. I was reading a heartbreaking email from a US friend this morning who wrote about his twenty-year next door neighbours. The father was carted off in the middle of the night for driving at 63 MPH in a 55MPH zone, he was non-white as were his family. My friend. much aware of his own privilege, is speaking out publicly as the wife of his neighbour and their 2 children cannot, as they are cowering in their home in terror and fear. They have no idea where the husband and father has been sent. My friend is funding for them to get legal help as they can't. This is the state of the U.S. today. My friend is very aware that going over a fraction of the speed limit would never have seen him arrested, being white. He is beyond enraged at what has happened to his neighbour, a hard working factory worker, the sole financial support for his family.

I see more and more countries being taken over by white privileged males. Much to the detriment of civil societies with the same rules of law for everyone and not just for the huddled masses. It's terrifying. We need equality desperately and ordinary women need far more say in the issues that really matter mainly poverty, mental health, free health care and yes, climate change, the biggest challenge of all.

Losing the Run of Myself

It happens.

A combination of many issues and challenges.

Mainly an additional injury to my back.

Followed by my going off a medication I didn't believe was that essential.

And oh my god on that as the consequences had me nearly hospitalized AGAIN.

Followed by my incessant doom scrolling.

Followed by ceasing to read blog-mates' blogs.

Followed by lack of sleep.

Followed by hermitizing myself due to mobility issues.

Followed by cabin fever.

Followed by a massive pity party.

I'm peeping above the parapet today. And daring to get upright in the process.

Gratitude list.

Music - Daughter converted me to Spotify (what a dream!) so am abandoning my Ipod which served me well for over 10 years.

Flowering plants everywhere in my home.

Good immersive books.

A marvellous season of great streaming series which are distracting me from my own misery.

A beautiful photo taken by one of my brothers on his hike yesterday in West Cork. Off in the distance you can see the Fastnet Rock Lighthouse, the last piece of land seen by the Titanic on its way to the U.S. An extraordinary piece of engineering.

I'll get around to reading all your blogs soonest. I'm sure you've all been prolific ⌨ 👀💓.

 

Missing

We had a LOT of snow and I was captivated by the melting centre of the window, itself shaped like a tree.

Andrew wrote about the losses of those we love a few days ago. I had been thinking about that on and off for the last few months having brushed close to the grim reaper myself - and this was not the first time either.

Lately the loneliness has struck me, all the close friends gone, the interesting, lengthy conversations, the extended stays in my house, the pick up of conversations started some time ago as if there were no break. Ideas tossed back and forth, meals cooked together, trips taken, scrabble games, books mailed and read and emailed on. Art reviewed, knitted items made and gifted, tribulations of life shared, sometimes on a daily basis, broken hearts nurtured and healed. Memories relived over and over. New adventures shared. "Remember whens?" relived and fresh little details offered up like Christmas gifts, old friends brought back to life by those outliving them.

And on it goes.  New friends are not the same, the shared history is shorter, the not knowing them in comparative youth and energy. I find it hard to imagine the youth in those elderly faces I see, the romances or the prettiness or handsomeness. And I imagine they only see the old in me too.

I miss them all, the shared confidences of times past, the remembrances of battles fought and won (or lost). But most of all the laughter and the trust and unwavering support for each other, reminders of life back then, of loves back then, of successes back then, of movies and theatre and operas and symphonies.

My orchids never fail to enchant me.

Don't get me wrong, please. I don't spend that much time thumping my chest and bemoaning the past. This is just something I haven't seen written about much. The absolute loneliness of old age when you outlive most of your friends and outliving a beloved partner would also be the same, I would think.

I would point out that making new friends is difficult with the limited capacity of being old, especially with physical challenges. Having uncertain days, joining a new book club or getting season theatre or concert tickets would involve commitment which my health challenges would not allow. Especially in winter. I am always aware of descending into constant "organ recitals" and I have to apply those brakes to myself when I find I can't wait to plunge into a conversation about all my ailments. I mentally slap myself in time. Usually.

Making Room

 Sometimes the inside of my brain looks like this ancient old button jar of mine, now a little art piece.

I read all this stuff about aging gracefully and living life to the fullest. I’ve never been a graceful person and have no intention of starting now. The lessons would take up far too much of my time.

I was writing my Morning Pages this morning. An unbroken habit for more years than I care to count. And this Making Room thing came up, as in what am I not making room for?

Quiet time is one thing. No music, no reading no TV. A couple of hours in the afternoon. Looking at my flowers or my knitting or just doing nothing at all. I need to get back to the run of myself (as my people say) with adjustments to the reality of my life now.

I feel far too much on edge with lack of sleep nearly every night and ongoing issues with my gastric system which never seemed to recover from the Norovirus.

I must make room also just to tick off one item from the ever lengthening to do list. I put everything on there as I have the kind of brain that shoves 5 things into my head at the same time and then I lose track of them all when the next bright glittery object hoves into view.

My first test was an email in from an old client of mine (I edited for him. A lot) who wants me to finalize his memoir. And I was going to jump all over it and then stopped myself. With some recent increases in my senior benefits (thank you, Canada) I could still always use the extra money, but do I need it? He’s not a very good writer and I don’t have the spare energy right now to clean him up. So nice email back declining but thanking him for the thought.

Now onward I go, ho-ho. I’ve made other little commitments too which I will write about later.

Have you made room, deliberately, in your life to enhance your days even a little bit?

Orchids, just because. 

Sunday Selections

Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

among others.

A painting of my daughter's house which I just bought for Daughter for her birthday. I absolutely love it and so will she. Her house also overlooks the ocean where hundreds of whales come in every summer. The pond reflected is a duck pond.

Orchids and African violets - what more could a spirit need?

Apart from a shelf of unread books? All these gifted from our annual Jolabokaflod plus a couple from the local library.

An old shot from my front garden as a boat heads out to the open sea.

A baby iceberg abandoned by its mother.

Sunday Selections.

 Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

among others.

I'm just going to throw randoms out here today. I was looking through some old albums (so many, lord, so many) and selected some that bring me joy with brief descriptions

I love this one of Ansa smelling the wild irises as we hiked the cliffs to Cape St. Mary's which has one of the largest gannet populations in the world.

This was the glorious view from the deck of my last house. I could watch the fishing boats and seals from my front door.

I loved photographing my knitting on old boats and docks.

I must have hundred of pictures of sunsets from my deck at the house.

And for those who wonder about such things - here is a fishing boat posing nicely between icebergs (melting rapidly)

What Fresh Horrors are Portended?

Or the failure of the Great American Experiment.

Does anyone else out there keep shaking their heads lately and wishing they could wake up to Kamala as president and an all is well feeling in the chest?

Me too. I find most don't even want to talk about all that is happening in this world right now and He still hasn't been sworn in. I see His idiot son grinning like a maniac as he lands in Greenland planting a virtual flag like Hillary on the peak of Everest. "This is ours now, Daddy, right?" And He grins in response and tells the press in a rambling incoherent mess of an "interview," "We'll no longer call it the Gulf of Mexico, it will now be the Gulf of America."

I only read Him now, I can't look at His great melon face or listen to that awful drawn out whiny voice. 

I threw my X account to the curb and restored my sanity on BlueSky and yes, I have cut my news intake by at least 50%. If you need any good soothing series to stream, just let me know and I will share my fixes. For now, BlueSky is a decent place with kindred spirits. I need to know I am not alone in my horror and grief for the world that is now gone. He promises to bomb the tar out of the Middle East as soon as He ascends the throne. Along with controlling Canada and Panama and sending the military into Mexico.

And his tech-bro buddies will now suspend fact-checking on all the platforms.

We are on our own now. 

But humour is saving a lot of us from despair. We need to laugh more.  And like someone said recently, empathy is the missing factor in all these monsters. We all need more empathy for the pain and suffering so many are suffering. 

Will goodness prevail in the long run?

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Nollaig Na Mban (a repost).

 A repost of one of my most popular posts ever. I miss throwing these fabulous celebrations of women as my mother and grandmother did before me.

Of all the posts or articles I have ever written, this is the one that has gotten the most attention and the most links from other blogs and publications. I reprint it here in its entirety and I am so, so happy this beautiful custom is now being held all over the world and not just in Ireland. Emails from New York, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland and even Germany tell me it is being revitalized. Long may it continue!
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The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and thought it deserved another audience.
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Nollaig Na Mban - "Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)


I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.


The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.


However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.


Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!


The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.


I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.


I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.


I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.


They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.


Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.


A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.


And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.

Sunday Selections

Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

among others.

Not much of a selection. Was only trotting about for essentials and my energy factory was not good until I went off one of my meds (did a deep dive) which was making me constantly fatigued and constantly nauseous. What doc and everyone was putting down to long range effects of the Noro was in fact, incorrect. Nearly a week off the meds now and symptoms have vanished. I'm waiting for a return call from my doc. So here we go:

A book mailed in October by one of my brothers who loved it. It's about our clan, my mother's, the O'Sullivan Bearas of Dursey Island who were 99.9% massacred by the British in the 16th century. I love receiving a book from someone who read it and loved it and then took the trouble to mail it. Our PO went on strike here so it had a long holiday somewhere. We rode the cable car there some years ago and were incredibly moved knowing we descended from just a couple of survivors.

A handmade knitter's mug from my daughter which I will cherish. I christened it this morning. It's one of those mugs with a lovely feel. Just the right weight and a decent handle.

This wonderful cartoonist resigned after 16 years with the Washington Post when they refused to publish her latest cartoon showing Bezos (Amazon) et al kowtowing to their new god. Mickey represents the owner of the WaPo which is owned by Disney.

An earthquake alarmed many up near Lewisport here in Newfoundland. Houses shook and there were mysterious and odd loud bangs. 2.8 on the Richter. I have long believed that all this undersea drilling for oil is causing huge disturbances in the earth's crust. There are massive quantities of oil being pumped out of our surrounding ocean here.

An old favourite photo of my precious Ansa at Lance's Point. She loved all living creatures, tended to a host of barn cats on my land and joined these birds in their foraging. Animals were never afraid of her. 

2025

A sweet owl to add to my collection of owls (my spirit animal), gifted by my next door neighbour.

I have many reasons to be grateful in this world of ours. I did a list this morning. I also did a list of improvements I could make in my life. Mainly in the arena of taking more time to savour the goodness and beauty around me. Interestingly enough (to me) was the desire to do "less" of things that don't seem to be helpful in any way. One of these was the news. I am a news junkie. I have no idea if this enhances my life in any way. My feeling is it doesn't. I worry about the future I can do nothing about. I think vengeful thoughts on all those who do such horrific harm in the world in the name of (take your pick) religion, land, hatred, vengeance. Count the wars. Count the dead babies and helpless women and men who never did harm to anyone.

I look at the newspaper headlines just now and it's all about a New Orleans massacre by "terrorists" a word which is used oddly. Anyone who kills anyone else is surely a terrorist? But no, it usually means someone "foreign" (read not white) never a local. A husband who kills his wife is a terrorist. We know in our hearts he has terrorized her for years. A man who machine-guns children in their schools is a terrorist, mentally troubled or not. All the headlines are meant to alarm and yes, "terrorize" us by specters of such boogeymen everywhere, hiding in every corner. Keeping us compliant and fearful and looking for a saviour to keep us all "safe." Enter Trump.

Interesting. I never know where my blog posts will take me. Look what one headline can do.

I don't make resolutions. But I will try to be kinder to others, less judgmental. We are all staggering along and it's so easy to love the people that agree with us and far more admirable to love those who do not. I live in a building where it is easy to flaunt my own intelligence and judge others for not being as smart. But "smart" is totally subjective. I do not suffer fools easily and I have a huge challenge in not showing that. Which, of course, is a reflection of my own insecurities. I did not sit in therapists' offices for nuttin ya know.

I think we all work on ourselves until the casket lid slams down. At least I do. I can laugh at myself too which is essential. And we learn and grow. Hopefully. Yearningly.

My blogworld saved my sanity many times. In not feeling alone. Some of you I have gotten so close to over the many years of shared thoughts. Many of you passed on and I miss your pithy insights and dear friendships. But i celebrate all of those wonderful readers who take the time to comment and commiserate and share.

I wish us all gentleness (thank you Kylie for the word!) in the coming year. We will need tons of it. 

But more than anything, each other.

White Christmas carnations in my mother's vase.

Tibbs Eve

 Happy Tibbs Eve from the Rock.

Tibb's Eve is a Newfoundland tradition on December 23rd that marks the unofficial start of Christmas. It's a day for pre-Christmas fun, and is also known as Tip's Eve or Tipsy Eve: 

• Celebrations

  Tibb's Eve is a time to decorate, sing, bake, and have a few drinks with friends. Some people attend music shows, while others have family potlucks

• Customs

  Tibb's Eve customs vary by community and family, but some traditions include decorating the tree, singing and dancing, and making handmade Christmas cookies. 
• Meaning

  Tibb's Eve is popularly interpreted to mean the day one can get "tipsy" and start drinking Christmas cheer. 
• Bars

  Bars have embraced Tibb's Eve and compete to attract customers. 
• Returning home

  Many Newfoundlanders return to their home communities for Christmas, and Tibb's Eve is a time to reconnect with friends before Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. 

Tibb's Eve is a sacred tradition in Newfoundland, and is only known in Newfoundland.  

On Those Days

 Thank you all for your lovely words of support on my last post. I found this on line and it spoke to me so deeply I thought to share it with all of you who have suffered similarly.

On those days when you miss someone the most, as though your memories are sharp enough to slice through skin and bone, remember how they loved you.
Remember how they loved you and do that, for yourself.
In their name, in their honour.
Love yourself, as they loved you.
They would like that.
On those days when you miss someone the most,
love yourself harder.

Author : Donna Ashworth

Grief

Many of long time readers will know that I went through grief-counselling some years back when my physical health began to suffer and my doctor of the time referred me to this amazing grief therapist. I had lost 8 close friends in the space of 18 months and the symptoms of my grief were not what you'd imagine as in crying all the time or depression. No, I was wound tighter than a drum with my blood pressure soaring through the roof and my tricky kidneys beginning to fail.

I was with the therapist for a 6 months of weekly sessions and he was incredibly understanding. He passed on much wisdom to me. One was when you suffer a severe heart breaking loss it opens up all the other losses in your life once again. Yes.

Well reader, I am there. All the chickens, so to speak, are home to roost now. My missing daughter's birthday was last week and that compounded everything, all the losses.

I tried to track down Peter, my grief therapist today but failed. I will try again. He was, I think, older than I. My siblings appear to be all cheerful and getting on with things so I find I can't/won't attend the weekly Sibling Zooms. I can't handle cheer. A friend dropped off a poinsettia and a fresh caught salmon yesterday and I could barely thank her but cried like a baby after she left. Kindness does me in.

I light a candle for the last photo taken of my brother every day and talk to him, hoping I'm not going right off the ledge.

I have delayed reaction to loss and I am hoping with Grandgirl staying with me by the end of the week I will climb out of this pit as it is affecting my overall health. I'm constantly nauseous and exhausted and not fit as we say out here.

The fact I am writing all of this down is a good sign, n'est pas?

Any shared stories of grief would be appreciated. 

I feel massively alone.

Sunday Selections

This week, all things blue and a book

Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

Many of you are familiar with my local beach, I visited it last week and it was completely deserted so I took advantage of some bitingly blue shots.

My  9 year old great niece was the only child performer in Stars on Ice at our vast arena. Not a bit of nerves on her and she brought the house down with her skill and triple axle moves. 

Just finished this book and loved it.

The Olden Days

Over the last few days there's been a lot of buzz on social media about the "olden days." Romanticized in extremis I should add. Christmases past particularly but more often than not about lovely smells in kitchens and 4 clotheslines and the lovely old wood stove used for everything from baking and boiling to hot water and heat.

Romantic for some, perhaps, but a drill down into those blissful times will reveal an overworked mother, often with multiple children - my sister-in-law is the youngest of 17 - you read that right - who baked all the family bread and did all the laundry by hand, mended her children's clothes - having made them - if lucky - on a treadle sewing machine with her tired legs after a labour-intensive day and if she had enough oil for the lamp to sew by.

She tended the kitchen garden and collected the eggs and made the butter and milked the one cow or many if it was a farm. She collected the wool from the sheep to spin it and knit her family's sweaters and socks and cut down the father's shabby clothes to fit her sons and used flour sacks - often dying them in different colours from dye harvested from flowers and vegetables to dress her daughters. She bottled and preserved all the fruit and vegetables, down to the excessive eggs for the winter season.

She never, ever stopped. Her husband had it comparatively easy. Escaping from the house to do his work in a factory. an office or a farm or as a general labourer. He came home at night and put his feet up and was served his supper and fresh clothes for the morning and read his newspaper if he was lucky enough to borrow or buy one. And the children were told not to bother Daddy after his hard day.

The woman's incredibly hard day was demeaned and dismissed, despite what she had sacrificed to be this unpaid slave breeder. By her husband, by his buddies, by her church - who also expected she would supply free labour to clean the church and wash and starch the altar linens and her sons' surplices if they were altar boys.

She had 3 choices - service to the church (nun or teacher or nurse - the church owned the convents, the schools and the hospitals and profited greatly), marriage, or a single life, mocked and condemned because she couldn't "get" a man.

She never could use her brain or get educated to a higher level beyond grade school. With rare exceptions from more enlightened parents.

I was born in 1943 and lived with my grandparents for a while and witnessed this lifestyle first hand even though all their children had gone, some to emigration. Granda still worked as a labourer and granny had no electricity and no running water and even with just me in the house, she worked non-stop from dawn to dusk. Financially and religiously trapped forever.

She passed on many words of wisdom to me, the top one being: "Get an education, colleen* and you'll avoid this."

Words I followed, never wanting the lifestyle of either her or of my mother. 

So yes, I am enraged by all this memory washing. A lot of it by men. Who to this day don't ever understand (and don't want to) the workload and sacrifice of their mothers or sisters. Apparently they all "enjoyed it."

*Irish for little girl

Wondering - an Absolute Rant

Just the back of his head, I can't bear that face or voice anymore. Fakery all the way down to the lifts in his shoes.

I imagine many of us are. About where THIS is all going. The wee tiny planet I mean. This earth we walk on.

I try and stay away from the news these days, Most unlike me as I'm a bit of a news junkie. The Guardian, Morning Joe until he and Mika snivelled off down to Mar-a-Lago to kiss the ring of Orange Jesus (OJ). Many of the US papers which I once respected are now gone sideways as well, kowtowing like cowards in advance to what is to come.

We are extremely nervous in Canada too as our conservative top dog is a Heritage Foundation graduate and a worshipper of the OJ and could be our next PM as Trudeau just ain't got it according to most electors, see polls.

We know what all this will bring. Christian Fascism. Extreme. 

I mentioned I try and stay away from the news but I have to open one eye and check it out more often than I like. PBS, Irish Times. CBC - our national news has weirded out. No good insightful coverage anymore. 

OJ proceeds with his appalling and terrifying cabinet appointments. One more evil than the next. I don't often use that word but evil and indecent and criminal comes to mind from all surrounding OJ. And the outrage, though unsurprising, about Joe Biden pardoning his son was laughable. He would never have pardoned him only that OJ promised to incarcerate him forever on a retribution tour of revenge on the "enemies within". And that list is terrifying. Military tribunals, etc. All for the offence of disloyalty. Baby Bush set the precedent for torture and OJ would relish that. 

He WILL suspend future elections. He will encourage other countries to go far, far, right and suspend theirs. And plunder every treasury he can get those orange hands on. Women will live as in 1850 with no votes, no divorce, no health care and fair game for any predator - and there are many in the cabinet and elsewhere.

It shows the weakness in the whole farcical structure of government in the US when OJ can infest the Supreme Court and other judicial bodies with his briberies or blackmail and turn the whole shaky edifice on its head into an unrestrained oligarchy/autocracy. 

I am chillingly reminded of when Nazi Germany tried to "export" all the Jews and when that failed, resorted to prison camps, followed by death camps.

Wait and see as all these countries he asked to house them are now rejecting OJ's attempts to export his millions of emigrants. He is already talking of numbering them. Carefully following in the steps of his hero Hitler and Project 2025.

I so want to be wrong in all of the above. But alas and alack I don't think I am.

My heart is with my American friends. Just about breaking for them.

Come to Newfoundland, you would be welcome on this isolated rock that everyone seems to forget about. You'd love it here. 

We keep a very low profile.

Sunday Selections

This week, things all homey.

Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

It took me days to put up and decorate my tree but I'm so proud of the finished result.

Went shopping in my favourite thrift stores for 3 pairs of desperately needed PJ bottoms (I always wear men's coz POCKETS). The rest of the world was at malls as it was Black Friday, hardly anyone in the thrift. It's vast, I'm only showing about 1/3 of it. Full of treasures.

Some of my favourite cheeses, I'm a divil for the fancy cheeses.

Two connected things on a theme which I love

A friend dropped by with this gorgeous Christmas cactus and 2 pots of her homemade jam.

And lastly, Grandgirl, who lives in Paris, gifts me with things tres francais. A set of these napkins with French herbs printed on them.