Righteous Indignation

It Doesn't Need to be this Way

Earlier this week, like so many parents across the country, I forced my kids to pose for the requisite first day of school photographs on the front stoop of our Minneapolis home. The resulting photograph shows my boys looking less than excited to be starting the school year after their summer vacation went by all too fast. This annual tradition usually fills me with the range of typical emotions — amazement at how fast they’re growing up, excitement at what the world has in store for them and, of course, just plain elation that the first day of school is finally upon us! But looking through my pictures this year, I find myself thinking something much, much darker.

Less than a week before I coaxed my kids to pose for me, a mere five miles from our home, two young school children were killed in the Annunciation school shooting — Fletcher Merkel, 8, and Harper Moyski, 10, while attending mass with their schoolmates. Twenty-one were injured, including 18 other children. Two remain in the hospital, more than a week later. School shootings in our country have become all too common, almost to the point of feeling like another back-to-school ritual right up there with buying school supplies. I have tried to not become numb to these incidents, but admit to being desensitized to the point of examining the death tolls after each shooting and measuring my concern by the numbers.

But it hits differently when it happens in your community, in your backyard. I know this shouldn’t be the case, but it is, at least for me. And when you have kids around the same age as the victims, it’s a real gut punch. My son William will be 10-years-old in a week and his older brother Oskar just turned 15. I was glued to my computer last week following news of the shootings. My Facebook feed was filled with posts from friends who lived near the school and had direct connections. One friend heard the gunshots from her home and witnessed the resulting emergency response. One friend’s grown children attended the school and she still knew people who work there. Another friend was set to be one of the victim’s flag football coaches when practice started this week. And now, Fletcher doesn’t get the chance to meet his team. I couldn’t help thinking about this fact as I brought William to his soccer practice tonight. It hits differently when it’s in your community.

Despite my better judgement, I got sucked into a gun debate on Facebook after someone posted an insensitive meme two days following the shooting. It read — “If guns kill people, pencils misspell words, cars drive drunk, and spoons make people fat.” I just wasn’t having it. I made a comment calling out the poster, a former co-worker from some 20-years-ago, describing this viewpoint as being “shortsighted, ignorant and offensive,” and basically said his post was an insensitive “dick move.”

My comment elicited a response from a man I’ve never met who wanted to strictly blame mental health for these tragedies and claim that guns have nothing to do with it and limiting access to guns wouldn’t help with the problem. He replied so eloquently with — “take your self-righteous bullshit elsewhere . . . it’s not needed here.”

What he considers self-righteous bullshit, I consider righteous fucking indignation. After some back and forth, I came to my senses and removed myself from the conversation, a conversation with someone who most likely is living in a completely different reality than my own. I did not have the time or energy to waste and felt no good would come of it. The only common ground we seemed to find was the simple fact we both want these horrific events to come to an end, and I guess that’s something.

While it is ridiculous to think there is a single cause to the uniquely American problem of mass shootings, I like to point out mental health and easy access to assault rifles are not mutually exclusive. They are both major factors. But what sets America apart from other countries who do not have this problem? Of course, it’s the guns, our bloody love affair with guns. Making a real effort to ban assault rifles — guns designed to kill the maximum number of people in the shortest amount of time — would make these events a lot less deadly. Would they stop them entirely? Of course not. But why do we make it so damn easy for these shooters to kill so many? It doesn’t have to be this way.

Did you know firearms are the number one cause of death in children in the U.S. ages 1 to 17? That’s more than any other cause, including car crashes and cancer. Let that sink in. Have you ever wondered why it is so easy to access assault rifles in this country, yet so difficult to access mental health care? Did you know the CDC is prohibited from funding gun violence research? Research. Priorities, right? It doesn’t have to be this way.

Driving Wiliam to soccer practice tonight, past the blue and green ribbons tied around trees and light posts in honor of the Annunciation shooting victims, I think about Fletcher and how he should be at his first flag football practice. And I think about 12-year-old shooting victim Sophia Forchas, still in the hospital in critical condition, and the sweet first day of school photograph of her with her little brother Anthony, a fourth grader just like William. Instead of this photograph being a snap shot of a milestone event in their lives, it is now featured in countless news stories about the shooting. It is featured on a Go-Fund Me page for Sophia. It is etched in the minds of worried parents across the country who just want to be able to send their kids to school without worrying about their safety, without worrying the first day of school pictures they just took of their children have a similar fate.

It doesn’t need to be this way.

Dad

Grandpa Bob points out a bald eagle as it flies along the shoreline of Lake Superior.

It’s been just over a year since my dad passed away from complications of dementia. Today, June 12, 2025 would have been his 86th birthday. This Sunday is Father’s Day, the second Father’s Day without him. These are all hard truths which have, of course, been on my mind, when I’m not worrying about everything from the minutiae of daily tasks to the existential crisis of democracy in our country. Somewhere, inbetween, when I find a calm moment or two and allow my mind to go there, I’m thinking about the one and only Bob Jokinen and what it means to live on the planet in his absence.

Everyone who loses a parent deals with it in their own, personal way. There are countless variations, from the manner of the death itself to the nature of the relationship with said parent. Whatever the variation, it universally sucks, to put it bluntly. In the case of losing my dad, dementia was a slow and heartbreaking process witnessed over the course of a couple years. By the time he passed, he was not living in a manner anyone would consider quality. At the end, he was a shell of his former witty and gregarious self, progressing to the point of needing 24-hour care and being non-verbal. Even with this knowledge, and knowing he would not have wanted to be a burden on his family, it’s still very difficult to say good-bye to someone you love, someone who shaped who you are in so many ways, both profound and subtle.

Living a long distance from your loved ones and not seeing them very often, it’s easy to not do a great job of being on top of things when it comes to their health. I knew my dad was declining, but my mom was pretty good at shielding us from much of the hardship she was going through taking care of him at home. I will always feel like I was not there enough for my mom as his condition worsened and he could not be left alone. When a spot suddenly opened up in a memory care unit, I had just started a new job. I’m grateful I was still able to make a quick weekend trip home to be there and offer a little support, even if it was just my physical presence. His placement at Canal View was a great relief in so many ways, despite it feeling so wrong to take him away from his beloved home on Lake Superior with the underlying knowledge he would never be coming back home.

I returned for another short visit a couple of months before he died and it was one of the toughest experiences I have known. I went to Canal View alone, leaving Oskar and William with Grandma Betty, and I’ll always be grateful for that decision. I am also grateful for this one last visit, as hard as it was to see him in his diminished state. In many ways, the experience made it easier to say good-bye and let go after he died.

My dad was 35-years-old when I was born and died just short of his 85th birthday. We had nearly fifty years together. Maybe I’m terribly selfish as I could have really used another 50 years. I wrote about that final visit shortly after it happened and held the following piece of writing close to my heart over the past year. But, I want to share it here now, as it serves as a good reminder to hold your loved ones close and appreciate the time you have together. It all goes by way too damn fast.

April 2, 2024

I was struck this morning by the difference between watching my 84-year-old father sleeping in his memory care unit room and watching my 8-year-old son sleeping on a twin mattress on the floor of my mother’s sewing room. It’s far greater than the 76 year difference in age.

My father is slowly dying from dementia and upon visiting this past weekend, I’m stunned by how diminished he has become. His body is skeletal, his cheeks hollow. When I first arrive he is awake and trying to take off one sock, his arms shaking as he struggles to do this simple task. He does not know who I am, does not acknowledge my presence and is overall unaware I’m there. The one-on-one nurse is at his side trying to convince him to keep his socks on. Apparently before I arrived he had been trying to take his pants off, for no apparent reason.

The nurse takes my arrival as a chance for her to go on break. It’s my first visit in three months, since I visited at Christmas, and I’m not all that keen on her leaving, as I don’t know what my dad is capable of and not capable of doing. It’s obvious he’s interested in getting up, but he doesn’t know who I am and cannot communicate verbally. He’s shaking and trying to get upright and I am alone with him, not quite knowing what to do. I’m still stunned by how he looks and am forcing back tears.

It’s Easter Sunday and an aide stops by his room. She’s dressed up for the holiday to entertain residents, wearing a pink top hat with bunny ears. She’s cheerful, and senses my discomfort, but says she’s just an aide and doesn’t quite know what to do about my dad’s insistence on standing. She tries to get some kind of support belt around him and I try to convince him to stay put on the bed, until someone more qualified to help comes back. At this point, he thankfully seems to give up on the idea of getting up and lays back down in his bed. The aide helps make him more comfortable, adjusts his blanket, and he turns away from me, laying on his side toward the wall.

Through it all, he looks miserable. I’m still struck by his face, the hollowed out cheeks, his mouth agape in a contorted manner that reminds me a bit too much of the Edvard Munch painting The Scream. He does not look like my father, the gregarious guy who always had so many stories to share and loved to talk. The man who should be sitting down in his Lazy Boy recliner with a bowl of his favorite ice cream covered with Hersey’s syrup, ready to watch the evening news on television. The man who loves Lake Superior and living at his lakeshore home. That man has been gone for quite awhile now and I miss him dearly. His body is left here hanging on, but my dad, he’s no longer with us.

For the next 40 minutes or so I sit by his side reading a novel and waiting to see if he wakes up. The television that’s bolted to the wall overhead behind me is playing the movie, “Pretty Woman,” on cable, complete with commercials. The subtitles are on. I wonder if the nurse had been watching it before I arrived. I know the movie well and between my reading, and watching my father sleep, I take in a scene or two from the movie. Julia Roberts’ character Vivian walks into the fancy boutique that wouldn’t serve her when she was dressed in her hooker outfit, and lets the bitchy sales woman know she made a big mistake - huge! A bit later she’s in the bathtub with Richard Gere’s Edward, offering up some therapy via her long legs. My familiarity with the movie serves as a good distraction from the sad and heartbreaking reality of seeing my father in his current state.

My Grandma Norma always referred to my dad as her little boy. I think about how sad Grandma Norma would be to see her little boy this way. He was a good son to her, always talking to her on the phone and cutting her grass in the summer, shoveling her snow in the winter. I’m not religious, but I still take comfort in the idea of her watching over him and welcoming him to the otherside when the time comes.

The next morning I’m up early and can’t fall back asleep. Instead I watch my little boy, my William, peacefully sleeping as the dawn’s early light filters into the room. I listen to his soft, even breathing and I think back to my poor father in his bed, so twisted. My father, my son - and here I am in the middle. Seventy-six years separate them — a whole lifetime. I think about all the ways my dad has influenced me throughout my life and I think about all the ways I have and will influence William's life. I hold out hope that I can do half as well as my dad did, because if I can, I consider that a big win.

Fifty is Nifty??

1975 - with mom and big sister Chris

December 29, 1974.

Being born on the 363rd day of the year essentially messes with your relationship to your birth year. Yeah, I was pretty much born in 1975. Either way, I am turning 50 this year — technically the butt-end of 2024, but really, let’s just round up and say I’m turning 50 in 2025.

I once asked my mom if she was disappointed I wasn’t a New Year’s baby, and she replied that on the contrary, her and my dad were quite pleased I was born in 1974, as they were able to claim me as a tax deduction. Cue the Replacements’ Bastards of Young — “income tax deduction, one hell of a function.” My parents always had a rather practical northern sensibility.

So, as the end of 2024 and my 50th birthday coincide, I find myself staring down the barrel of ultimate life reflection. Not only do I have the typical annual New Year’s resolution type shit, I’ve got the holy shit I’m a half-century-year-old type shit. Now that’s a lot of shit! A half-century worth of shit. Bear with me as I venture all over the ​​recesses of my brain and embark on an adventure reflecting on the past, worrying about the future, avoiding the presence and waxing poetic on whatever happens to pop into my head. Much like life, this may be a rollercoaster of an essay.

When I turned 40 I recall thinking, “This is great, I don’t give a damn what anybody thinks. I am finally comfortable in my own skin. This is just so great!” I started to think of the decade as the, “zero fucks to give 40’s.” Despite this initial mindset, as time went on, I began to see this decade in less of a positive and life affirming light. Now as my 40’s come to an end, it feels a lot more like, “your 40’s — when everybody gets cancer or gets a divorce.” Which I suppose is a bit on the dark side, but has a bit of truth to it.

I was 40-years-old when my youngest son William was born and nearly killed me in September 2015. Despite his murderous intent, through the years I have somehow learned to love him. In all seriousness though, it was a complicated pregnancy and birth involving something called HELLP syndrome and I was lucky enough to receive very good medical care. Happy to say as I approach 50, the little guy who almost killed me is a very fun nine-year-old with endless energy and an ever impressive vocabulary.

Family Halloween Scooby-Doo costume

Onward to 2016, and what sticks out in my mind was going to vote for the first woman president, with one-year-old William in tow. Of course, we all know how that turned out! I ended 2016 by slipping on some ice while visiting my parents and breaking my leg. The injury resulted in surgery on my 42nd birthday at the same rural hospital where I was born and I managed to convince myself I was going to die in a “circle of life” kind of way. Spoiler alert, as you may have guessed while reading this essay about turning 50, I survived said surgery. A distinct memory as 2017 began was being stuck on my living room couch, broken leg and all, watching the Trump inauguration while sobbing. And like that, the American carnage began.

Of course there’s no need to recap the whole past decade. We all remember the major highs and lows — including of course that little pandemic that began in March 2020. Considering the stress of living through a pandemic, maybe this essay should be about turning 75 instead of 50, as I’m fairly sure the experience accelerated my aging. I was a stay-at-home parent at the time and got to wade through the joys of homeschooling two kids at a time of very high anxiety. I became addicted to irreverent cross-stitching, doom scrolling and trying to figure out the best way to see the people I loved while keeping up with the social distancing. High points through it all included the development and distribution of vaccines and the election of Biden in 2020, signaling the return to some normalcy.

In 2023, at 48, I re-entered the workforce landing a unicorn of a photography job, working for the Minnesota legislature. After ten years at home with the kids, this was a huge and exciting change for me. As I now head into my third legislative session, I’m grateful this opportunity came along. Although it’s not the perfect job — what is – it has changed my perspective on so many things. Mostly, my own self-worth and the enjoyment of being out there in the world again. And getting paid well for making photographs is pretty damn cool, too!

Post interview photo - got the job!

This past May my father passed away following a battle with dementia. He had been living in a care facility for eight-months before he died and it was not unexpected as his health had been steadily declining. Although his passing has been difficult to process — and I’m still in the midst of processing it —I know when he passed he wasn’t really living. He was a shell of his former self, not able to communicate anymore, which if you knew my father, is hard to imagine. I’ll always be comforted with the knowledge that he spent the last thirty years of his life living in the home he loved on Lake Superior. Even as his dementia worsened, he’d walk around and wax poetic about how lucky he was to live on the big lake and to be blessed with so much in his life. I’m very grateful for the time we had together and try to reflect upon the good memories and telling my kids stories about Grandpa Bob. Introducing my boys to the joys of foosball has been therapeutic.

Grandpa Bob and William

 
As we head into 2025 and the chaos that is certain to come with another ride on the Trump merry-go-round, I’d like to focus on the things I can control. This isn’t easy for me, as, like most people, I tend to worry about the many, many things we have no real control over. I’ve mostly been avoiding the national news since the election, as it tends to break my heart, but I know I can’t hide from it forever. Complete avoidance is a cop out and I have a responsibility as an adult citizen of this here country to keep up with the major stories, no matter how disturbing they may be.

As I embark on 50, I find myself both looking back at the last 20 years and looking forward, wondering what the next 20 years may have in store — fingers crossed I make it to 70. I’m trying not to get bogged down on past regrets, although we can certainly learn from our regrets. Aside from the three years of my life spent commuting to Rochester, the only other regret worth mentioning and reflecting upon concerns relationships and time. As we age, it’s natural to gain a new perspective on time and how truly precious it is. The way we spend our limited time on this planet becomes much more relevant. I was recently reminded of the Iron & Wine album titled “Our Endless Numbered Days.” This phrase seems like such an accurate and poignant description of the nature of our time on this planet. Most days it feels endless until we’re suddenly reminded, in so many ways, that our days here are literally numbered. As I’m writing this, I am at number 18,261 of my life.

Bus stop mama!

 
Whether it’s catching a look at myself in the mirror, standing next to my 14-year-old son who is now at least two inches taller than me, or finding out that my favorite album just turned 30-years-old, I’m constantly bombarded by reminders of how fast everything is going. I often find myself wishing I could slow time down. Obviously, that’s impossible. Even Cher couldn’t turn back time. But I suppose the best next alternative is to do our best to enjoy every moment we have together and live in the present. Spend time with those you truly love and enjoy. Cut back on all the bullshit, as there’s really no time for all the bullshit! Take every opportunity to do the things you like to do, be with the ones you like to be with. And put your damn phone down. I know I need to do this, I know! Honestly, if I could press a magic button that would get rid of the Internet forever, I would do it. Would I have a lot of enemies for doing it? Yeah, probably. But humanity would thank me in the long run.

And this leads me to relationships. My 50-years have taught me that relationships are the most important part of our journey through this thing called life. As Prince pointed out, “take a look around, at least you have friends.” Who would we be without the people in our lives, our friends and our family?

Like all things of value, relationships take a lot of work and cultivation. My goal as we head into 2025 and as I head into my 50th year on this planet, is to put more work into my relationships. I want to take time to reach out to friends and family whom — for whatever reason — I’ve lost touch with or have experienced a relationship stressor. Moving forward, repairing and strengthening relationships is paramount to me and really doesn’t take much more than finding the time to reach out and figuring out ways to communicate better and more often in an age where there are countless ways to do so. I’d like to put an effort into seeing people in person, too, as I think it’s important to get real life facetime with the people you love. This of course can get expensive, but it truly is money well spent.

As for my relationships with my immediate-right -here-in-this-house family, I’d like to focus on the quality of the time we spend together. To me, this means less screen time — unless we’re sitting down together to watch a movie and eat popcorn — and more activity time. I’m not quite sure what these activities will be, but I’m sure we can put our heads together and come up with something. We live in a vibrant city with so many things to explore and experience. So thank you to all of you who have been a part of my life. Know you are appreciated and loved by this over the hill woman in Minneapolis. And thank you for reading this terribly long and meandering essay.

Last photo in my 40's

 

A Love Letter to Wilco

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen the band Wilco and I’m a bit mad at myself for not keeping better track. Long gone are the days of holding onto ticket stubs as souvenirs, yet another fine tradition lost to technology. But, I’ve been a big fan since my college days in the mid-90’s and if I had to guess, I’ve been to at least twenty Wilco shows over the years.

When I first started getting into photography, I photographed the band when they played at a small college in Michigan, shooting 35mm black and white film. The resulting photos were terribly grainy, but mostly in focus and I’m grateful to have them. Years later while studying photojournalism at the University of Missouri-Columbia, I took advantage of photo equipment check-out while shooting a great outdoor street show. The resulting photos were much better, but sadly, I’m afraid the high-res versions are lost, most likely burned on a CD and sitting somewhere in my basement. Many years later, I photographed the band when they played a show at the Rochester Civic Center. I was working as a photographer for the Rochester Post-Bulletin newspaper and even wrote my one and only concert review to go along with my photos.

Jeff Tweedy and the late Jay Bennett play a show somewhere in Michigan circa 1998

I was a Wilco fan long before I became a photographer, first enjoying the band’s debut album A.M., then backtracking and listening to all the Uncle Tupelo albums. Listening to Wilco’s music evolve through the years as my own life moved forward is a testimony to the power of music. So many memories of my 50 years on this planet are tied to various songs and albums. I cannot hear these songs without being transported back to a particular time and a place, and I wholeheartedly love that aspect of music. Whereas some bands offer up a brief glimpse into a particular time in my life, Wilco has been there for decades. So it seems appropriate that my favorite Wilco album is named Being There, as it feels like they’ve always been there for me, like an old friend.

Wilco play the Rochester Civic Center circa 2012

 
Around the time I became a Wilco fan, I was also listening to the band Soul Coughing. I loved their 1994 album Ruby Vroom and was excited when they recently got back together to do one of those nostalgia tours that have become so popular and are completely marketed to aging GenXers like myself. I fell for the bait and scooped up tickets the instant they went on sale. Overall, I enjoyed the show and the walk down memory lane, but it left me feeling a bit hollow inside. I expected to feel more joy out of the experience as I sat back in my cushy balcony seat and took in the performance. The music was fine, everything I remembered it to be, but the band members didn’t really seem to enjoy performing together — which is never an issue at a Wilco show. The band’s songs represented a snapshot of my mid-90’s life — college, pre-kids, pre-responsibility — all fun times and worth remembering, sure. But it all felt a bit superficial. Was I looking too hard for a deeper meaning in a rock show?

While watching the Soul Coughing show, my mind wandered to Wilco, as I had just bought tickets to one of three shows they were set to play in St. Paul three months later at the very same venue. I couldn’t help but compare how one band had a pretty brief shelf-life while the other had become a mainstay in my life over thirty years. Of course, Soul Coughing had only released a few albums in the 90’s and Wilco has had an expansive and prolific three decade long career. Obviously, I was way too in my head at the Soul Coughing show, a bad habit of mine.

A couple weeks before Wilco’s three show St. Paul run, a local radio station was offering a chance to win tickets to all three shows. I laughed to myself and thought, damn, even as a big fan, I don’t think I need to see Wilco three nights in a row. It seemed a bit much, though I suspect 20-year-old me would have had a completely different opinion. I had tickets to the Saturday night show — the second night of the three. The shows were slated as no-repeat sets and as they drew near, I started to think maybe three nights of Wilco wouldn’t be so bad. And by the time I read the reviews and set-list for night one, the regret really started to set-in. Sure, it would have been expensive, but the band played an incredible 95 songs during the three night run. Ninety-five songs! That's being there for their fans.

Of course it’s not worth regretting only going to one of three shows, as I enjoyed hearing some of my favorite songs, along with some completely unexpected songs. My favorites of the night were Sunken Treasure, Blue Eyed Soul, Casino Queen and a beautiful rendition of Remember the Mountain Bed off of the second Mermaid Avenue album — which from what I’ve read is a pretty rare play. Another favorite was Wishful Thinking, which is one of those songs that ties in with a distinct memory. When I hear that song I’m transported back to driving home from the hospital in the early morning after being up all night with my youngest son, who was 6-months-old at the time. He had come down with a really terrible case of croup and had to spend a night in the hospital. My husband had come to relieve me and, as I exhaustedly drove home, that song came on the radio and tears welled up in my eyes. At this point, we knew William was going to be just fine and I was filled with a huge sense of relief after a tough, emotional night. But the lyrics and the music made me break down.

Fill up your mind with all it can know
Don't forget that your body can let it all go
Fill up your mind with all it can know
'Cause what would love be without wishful thinking

Hearing the song live at the Palace had me teary-eyed once again, as the memory came flooding back. The power of music never ceases to amaze.

Thank you Wilco, for being there.

— Just A Fan

One happy fan post Wilco/Sleater-Kinney
Red Rocks show 2021

The Big Bad Wolf Blows Down Democracy

Since last Tuesday, when America chose Donald Trump, a convicted felon and all around terrible man, over Kamala Harris, a very smart and accomplished woman, my head has been hurting, my heart has been aching and my stomach has been churning. Maybe not all at once or constantly - it seems to come and go - but it was a reminder of the way intense anxiety and worry can manifest as physical symptoms. More than a week later, my body has seemed to settle upon constant muscle tension and jaw clenching - both very familiar following the first Trump administration and Covid pandemic.

Like everybody, I have many thoughts and feelings about the 2024 presidential election. Spurred on by an old high school friend’s Facebook comments, I wrote a way too long response. The following is an adaptation of that response, along with some added thoughts on the state of the country and my fears for the next four years.

It all began with the following comments high school friend made regarding the election -

“If someone has a different view than your own, it doesn’t make them a bad person. A lot of moderates voted for Trump because Harris’s campaign ran on hatred, hatred of Donald Trump.”

I couldn’t not respond.

When someone has a different view from my own - say they like apples and I prefer oranges, you’re right, that doesn’t make them a bad person. Or say they love Jesus and I love my right to be an agnostic, you’re totally right, that doesn’t make them a bad person. Personally, I think religion throughout history has caused more problems than it has solved. Just look at the middle east. But I could honestly give two shits about what an individual person believes, as long as they do not try to push their beliefs on me or others.

However, if a person supports and votes for a candidate for president as vile and destructive as Donald Trump, it makes them a bad person. Period. I don’t care how they reason voting for him - a vote for Trump is a vote against democracy, freedom and everything our country once stood for. Their morals and values do not align with my morals and values, thus I get to use my opinion, call them out and yes, even go so far as to judge them as a bad person. I still have that right, the right to voice my opinion. At least for now.

That said, getting into Trump 2.0 and what it may portend for the country, I foresee a ton of really, really scary things - and not just for us bleeding heart liberals, but for democracy as a whole and for freedom.

Trump without guardrails, a man who wants to be a dictator on day one, and not just any kind of dictator, one who has shown signs of mental decline, is frankly the stuff of nightmares. I am incredibly frightened, like can’t sleep at night frightened. He is set to rule over America in a cruel and evil manner surrounded by loyalists who will let him do as he sees fit. His cronies have agendas of their own to push - Steven Miller, the white supremist architect of mass deportation who wants us to be “America for Americans only” is scary as all hell. Elon Musk, oh my jebus, is looking to line his pockets with even more money at the expense of the middle class and poor people, while he rakes in millions in government contracts. RFK, Jr., a man who does not believe in vaccines, is going to be heading up public health. Be ready for more mass corruption at the expense of the American people.

The only equality Trump has ever cared about is spreading his hate equally to ALL the various marginalized groups in this country, whether it be women, people of color, trans people, immigrants, etc. He equally hates us all and his campaign has always been about fear and hate.

In comparison, to say Harris’s campaign was run on hatred is laughable. Sure, disdain of Donald Trump, there was plenty of that - but at least she was very specific and directed it at a single individual and one who was very deserving of it, as he’s proven himself to be the epitome of a terrible, terrible person who is unfit to run the country. Our first convicted felon, rapist president - lucky us.

Harris ran a campaign that spoke of uniting people and welcoming people of all backgrounds and being a president for every American. She is a very smart and accomplished woman. Trump, meanwhile, ran on deporting immigrants and the hatred of those different from you. He is an expert in one thing, and one thing only - lying his ass off and caring about one person, himself.

I am convinced two major factors lead to Trump winning the election - social media and misogyny. I have a hard time believing anyone who read news outlets that actually employ trained journalists would ever vote for Trump. Social media has done no favors for democracy and I realize what I see in my social media feeds is drastically different from what the other side sees. And realizing how much of what they’re seeing is driven by right-wing media disinformation campaigns is disturbing to say the least. Unfortunately, so many of the reputable fact-based news sources are behind a paywall, making them inaccessible to many Americans who do not or cannot spend the money to access them or who just don’t give a damn.

As for misogyny - not once, but twice now - America just could not bring itself to vote for a woman, two very qualified to be president women. To add insult to injury, both of these women lost to Donald Trump - the least qualified presidential candidate in the history of our country. It’d be one thing if they lost to an average candidate who wasn’t so terrible - but to lose to Trump. Well, America, your message is crystal fucking clear - you hate women. You’re scared of vaginas. And sadly, it’s not just the men who hate women. Women hate women, too.

It’s 2024 and it’s hard to believe we are going back. But really, it’s not so much that we’re going back - we are going forward into uncharted territory - we are going forward into the fascist regime of Trump 2.0. It may be uncharted territory for America, but we can look to history and Germany to prepare ourselves. I hope it goes better for the marginalized people of America than it did for the Germans.

What’s amazing to me is Trump did nothing to hide who he is. He wore his misogyny, racism and hate proudly. The felon even raised millions of dollars selling merchandise featuring his mug shot. Obviously, he is no wolf in sheep's clothing. He is the big bad fucking cruel ass out in the open racist wolf, and you knew it and voted for him anyway. He’s now set to huff and puff and blow democracy down. The only question remaining is if our democracy is made of straw, sticks or brick? I’m not looking forward to finding out, since this time around the wolf has sharper teeth at his disposal. This time around he has the Supreme Court, he has plans to appoint more conservative federal judges. He has Project 2025, with plans to fire career civil servants and replace them with loyalists pledging allegiance to Donald Trump. These career civil servants are the nonpartisan workers who make our government run. Sure, our institutions are far from perfect, but replacing these people with unqualified cronies who are motivated by pleasing Trump is a recipe for disaster. During the last Trump administration, the wolf was on a leash, he had handlers that could reign him in on many of his more extreme policies. This time around, he will be running free with a whole pack of other wolves looking to exploit this country at the expense of our most vulnerable people. What can we do to stop it?

If you’re an empathetic person who cares about people other than yourself, please pay attention. Please watch out for your neighbors. I’m not sure what else we can do. Focus on your community, local government and state government. It may get us through.

As for anyone who voted for Trump - remember, you were warned. You know exactly who you were voting for. This is what you wanted and what you asked for. You were warned. America gets the America it deserves. Thanks.

If you’re looking for a good source of information that is well researched, based on fact and insightful, please follow this woman. She is amazing.

https://www.facebook.com/heathercoxrichardson

Welcome to my Adulthood Calamity

Next year I’ll be turning fifty-years-old. Fifty-years-old.

Seems like just yesterday milestone birthdays were fun. Double digits, sweet-sixteen, adulthood — voting and buying cigarettes! Legal drinking at 21! Hell, even turning 25 and renting a car seemed exciting. Running for president at thirty-five, because you know, I totally ran for president back in 2012.

You get the picture, they’re all pretty positive and interesting milestones in this thing called life.

And now the big 5-0 — fifty. Is it nifty? Is it scary? Is it completely unrealistic to call it mid-life? Am I being overly optimistic?

As I enter into the last year of my 40’s and face the significance of the half-century mark, I’ve had plenty on my mind to keep me from falling asleep easily at night. First, where the hell has all this time gone? It seems like only yesterday I was graduating from high school and headed to college, ready to discover all the possibilities the world had to offer. I was lucky enough to do a pretty good job sowing my wild oats through my twenties and killing a fair number of brain cells in the process. My thirties followed with marriage, homeownership, baby number one and some success as a photographer.

I ushered in my 40’s with baby number two and enjoyed the no-fucks to give attitude that comes with maturing a bit and realizing what other people think of you isn’t super important. My 40’s seemed pretty great, until it seemed like everyone I knew was either getting cancer or a divorce. As I inch closer and closer to 50, these are just two of the more serious subjects on my mind.

I find myself deep in the sandwich period of life — experiencing the dual stresses of aging parents and parenting young children. Considering our proclivity to waterdown our language by using euphemisms to gloss over the seriousness and overall shittness of a situation, I am here to say it’s completely right and justified to fully embrace the term “midlife crisis.” Because it certainly feels like a crisis and not a mid-life contingency, although I’ll admit the term “adulthood calamity” is beginning to grow on me. But, upon some quick internet research - a.k.a. Googling - I found there are no common euphemisms for the midlife crisis. Searching for synonyms of midlife crisis, however, reveals a suitable number of relatable words — agony, apprehension, dread, misgiving, nervousness, angst, uneasiness, malaise. Maybe some are a bit overdramatic, but for sure they are real. So let’s call a spade a spade, a midlife crisis is just that, a crisis. This shit ain’t for the faint of heart and at times can feel plain overwhelming.

Grandpa Bob points out a bald eagle as it flies along the Lake Superior shore.

For the last couple of years, my dad has been struggling with dementia which has progressed fairly rapidly this past year. At the end of September he moved into a memory care facility after being on a long waitlist. In many ways it was a relief, as taking care of him at home had become difficult for my mom. There is such a wide variety of feelings that come with this disease and with the decline of a parent. In many ways I’m sheltered from many of these feelings because I am 350 miles away from my folks and I’m really good at denial and compartmentalization - my go-to coping mechanisms. But there are plenty of times when I just want to sit alone in a dark room and cry my eyes out. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s probably pretty healthy.

I do find emotions sneaking up on me when least expected, often triggered by what feels like the most random of moments. I was driving to a hair appointment in the burbs the other day and passed a Menards store and found myself tearing up, as I’d often purchase gift cards for my dad this time of year for Christmas. I thought about how it would never happen again and how he’d never again be working in his shop, where he created the beautiful custom hutch that graces a tight spot in our kitchen. While addressing holiday cards, I got to my parents on my list of addresses. It no longer made sense to address the card to both my mom and my dad, as dad will never live in his beloved lakeside home again. But, nevertheless, part of me felt like I should include him in the address, too, because I always have. And now do I send a separate card to him at the care facility, even though he won’t know who these people are in the photographs?

The lyrics from the R.E.M. song Sweetness Follows come to mind as I type these thoughts and dab my eyes with tissue.

It’s these little things, they can pull you under

Live your life filled with joy and thunder

Yeah, yeah we were altogether

Lost in our little lives

Oh, but sweetness follows

Oh, but sweetness follows

As I face the holiday season in this lovely time of my adulthood calamity, I’m trying to not let it all pull me under, to instead focus on the joy and thunder. Get through the hard stuff, await the sweetness. Okay, I’m not entirely sure what Michael Stipe was going for, but the words and melody are beautiful and worth reflection, and certainly fit my general mood.

Forgive me, this essay is a bit on the discombobulated side, too long and not particularly well organized. Forgive me, but it sort of matches my mind set these days. When I think about the situation with my dad and how to deal with it, I have so many thoughts coming at me from different directions. I’m just going to spew some more of them right here for contemplation.

You can run, but you can’t hide from your emotions. They’ll always catch-up to you. Turn around and face them. Know you don’t have to be strong all the time, lean on others for support in your darkest hours. You’ll return the favor soon enough. Be grateful for the good times you’ve had and embrace the memories, even if it’s painful to realize so many of those good times are in the past. Focus on quality time with those you love. Put down your phone and be present. Put down your phone and be present. I had to write that twice as a reminder because I’m so terrible with my phone. Try to embody all the best parts of the one you love, the one you’re losing. They’ll always be part of who you are. They made you. And pass on the memories and what you learned from them to the next generation.

My dad made the best chocolate malts. One of my favorite meals growing up and well into adulthood was cheeseburgers and chocolate malts. He relished the process of making the malts - vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and of course plenty of malt powder. He had a way of making a big production of this process, making it special. He did that with a lot of things. The whirl of the blender as he added just enough milk to create the perfect chocolate malt with a special flourish. The one time we flew too close to the sun and decided to have a second round of malts after the first only to regret it later with the onset of major tummy aches. Was it worth it? Yes, totally worth it, if only for the memory we would share every time we had malts thereafter.

I found myself sharing the story of Grandma Bob’s amazing chocolate malts with my boys the other day, and it made me smile as they insisted I take up this tradition in our home. I told them we’d need to get a blender and the boys are all behind it. Maybe it’s these little things that can fill our lives with joy when it feels like we might get pulled under by all the hard things. Maybe the sweetness that follows simply consists of vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup and of course the sweet memories of the ones you love. And sharing these memories with the next generation and passing on that sweetness.

Bitch, drink and be happy - thoughts on toxic positivity and self-care

Social media plays a big part in our everyday lives and for some time there’s been a prevalence of what's become known as “toxic positivity,”on social media platforms. The general gist of toxic positivity is you should quit your damn belly aching and be happy for all the wonderful things in your life, you ungrateful asshole. Basically, it’s the quit whining so much, pick-yourself up by the bootstraps, things could always be worse kind of attitude. Come on people, let’s focus on the positive here! Jeez!


I’m here to say fuck all that noise. It’s okay to feel shitty when you’re going through something difficult, or hell, just having one lousy day. You do not need permission to feel shitty. I’m tired of feeling the need to add the phrase, “well, it could always be worse,” whenever I talk about a difficulty I’m facing. First of all, OF COURSE it could always be worse you shithead. Your right leg could be caught in a bear trap, completely mangled and bleeding while you’re in the woods miles away from civilization. Yeah, that would be a hell of a lot worse than having a flat tire on your way to work. It may even be worse than dealing with your kid having behavioral problems in school. Or losing your job.


As it happens, social media serves as an incredibly convenient and effective way to share both the high points and the low points of our lives with our community. So go ahead and use it that way and don’t worry about what other people are going to think about your relatively insignificant problems. We’re all in this life thing together, muddling our way through, and if our social media community can provide us with some support - great! Even if it can simply provide us with space to vent and get our anger and frustrations out of our system, that’s not a bad thing. Really, it’s one of the more positive aspects of social media. Oftentimes, it’s just what we’re looking for - a friend who can relate and commiserate with us when we’re having a shit day.


I find it strange enough that the term, “self-care,” has become a thing in our modern day-to-day lives. Taking time for yourself, me-time . . . this should not be something we have to strive to achieve, it should be a given part of our lives. It’s startling to me that it’s something that needs to be identified to the extent that it has an actual name. Self-care. Well, fuck, yeah, of course we should take care of ourselves. It should just be natural, a given. As I write this I am indulging in self-care. I just finished off a glass of wine at a local wine bar after leaving my children alone for an hour with their screens. I am indulging in writing - this is also my self-care. Do I feel guilty about having some time to myself to do something I enjoy that is also good for my mental health? No, absolutely not. I think it’s more unhealthy to feel guilty about every little self-indulgence we dare to take. I know far too many caregivers who don’t take the time to care for themselves, and that’s a damn shame.


Maybe it’s just my inherent selfish nature, but I find I am quite good at self-care and do not struggle with finding the time to indulge in the things I love. Life is short afterall. Maybe I’m too good at self-care, but I’m not going to worry about that right now. Tonight I will fire up the sauna after the kids are in bed and indulge in some more self-care. I may even sneak some of their Halloween candy while they’re asleep, because damn it . . . self-care! Really, some of the best parts of life can be described as self-care. I’m willing to bet that people who indulge in a shit ton of self-care tend to live longer and happier lives than those who do not. I bet all those blue-zone areas of the world are chalk full of mother fuckers self-caring themselves all the damn time. And that’s why they die in their sleep at 101 with smiles on their faces. Self-care!