Delta Delta Delta
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Saturday, June 29, 2024
A Place Where We Be Long Sometimes
Wednesday, June 12, 2024
Half a million strong
It's been far too long since I've updated this blog with a fresh post.
That's because I'm immersed in August 15th-17th of 1969, at The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, where the characters in my upcoming novel are spending their time. I've been fascinated by Woodstock for many years. It's irresistible; music to tickle any eardrums, bell bottoms, peace, love beads, counterculture, protest, headbands, campfires, hippies, flower power, downed fences and free admittance to a horde that swelled to almost half a million.
It was a loser from any business standpoint, but oh, what a moment in time Woodstock marks. We'd gone from the boomtastic Fifties to a decade of unrest. The war in Vietnam divided our country to the point where, by 1969, young people wanted nothing more than a few days among their own kind, a congregation, a gathering, a sharing, a communal experience with Sly and the Family Stone causing boys to dance like they were performing slow-motion karate attacks. An almost-unknown kid named Carlos Santana rocked everyone's world with a distinctive new brand of Afro-Cuban drums and wailing guitar. Country Joe McDonald introduced an anti-war anthem for the ages and a cheer that melted the ears off multitudes with its singular vulgarity. Creedence Clearwater Revival reminded everyone that a bad moon was indeed rising.
I've casually referred to it as the Mac Daddy of music festivals, but Mac Mommy is more accurate.
It rained. It was muddy. There were food shortages, inevitable against the tide of unexpected attendees. The people around Bethel, New York did not welcome this invasion. Their properties were overrun by hippie campers and cars. The generation that arrived on the doorsteps of local residents looked scruffy and druggy.
But those folks did the unthinkable: they banded together and made thousands of sandwiches to hand out to these kids. They donated fresh produce and meat and milk. By the time it was all over, Max Yasgur, owner of the dairy farm where the entire spectacle unfolded, said, "The important thing that you've proven to the world is that a half a million kids — and I call you kids because I have children that are older than you are — a half million young people can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, and I — God bless you for it!"
God bless Max for providing the venue for a seminal moment in musical and cultural history. It was a weekend when political differences between attendees and locals could not have been more pronounced, where the lines drawn were almost neon-obvious, and people reached across them to show love and acceptance.
We could take a lesson or two in 2024.
Love and peace from Delta.
Tuesday, February 13, 2024
This Is Not About Kelce, Swift, or Reid...It's About You
Social media is afire with the topic du jour, Travis Kelce's attack on Andy Reid during Super Bowl LVIII. And, as I am a person with precious few unexpressed opinions, I leapt into this fray with a fury.
I think Kelce was wrong. Really wrong. To confront one's head coach on a world stage with the level of disrespect he spewed was unprofessional, trashy, and downright scary. That sort of testosterone explosion can never be properly directed at your boss, much less a man thirty years your senior and a bit unsteady on his feet.
That's not really the subject here, though. It's this: have we lost the ability to have intelligent conversation in this country?
As soon as Travis displayed every vein in his forehead and his mighty biceps of rage, the public started choosing sides and making assumptions.
If you thought Kelce was out of line, you were a conservative. If you dismissed his behavior as "just football", you were a liberal.
If you dared to voice concern for Taylor Swift in her relationship, you were hysterical and a (gasp!) feminist.
I realize political division is nothing new in this or any other country. I simply wish we weren't allowing it to soar to levels that don't require anyone to ponder their own opinion...one will be chosen for you by your "side."
Soccer moms want you to know they've seen you ranting at your kids' games. Guys who've played football, some of them probably in leather helmets, want you to know this is simply the frustration of a player who wanted to win.
The problem is, I may have been frustrated on a sideline or two and even yelled. But not at my children's coach. And I've never played football or anything else requiring eye/hand coordination, but I've watched some stellar examples of athletic prowess and good sportsmanship get horribly frustrated and still play their games without attacking their coaches.
Reid shrugged it off. Sure he did, Kelce is a star player and regularly hosts Reid on his podcast. That doesn't make it right.
I would love to have seen Travis Kelce as an Alabama tight end confronting Nick Saban this way. Or as a Patriots tight end yelling in Bill Belichick's face. I'm pretty sure Vince Lombardi wouldn't approve of his namesake trophy being cradled by a player who created such a crass display during the Super Bowl.
So there. Classify me. I am neither Republican nor Democrat. I love Taylor Swift and everything she stands for as a woman and an artist. I love Travis Kelce and his podcast. I am super impressed by the Kansas City Chiefs, especially Patrick Mahomes. I want Taylor and Travis to live happily ever after.
But I'm not going to look the other way when someone makes an ass of himself in front of the entire world. Neither should you.
Thursday, June 30, 2022
A House Like That
I never disclose my age without absolutely having to, and then it’s grudgingly mumbled.
I used to live in a house like thatAll shiny and pretty and newI gradually moved to this shabbier placeBut I much prefer the view
Wednesday, May 25, 2022
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Meeting readers is, without reservation, the best part of my job.
They're usually members of a book club. They know everything, because they're extremely well-read. They are strongly opinionated. They've lived interesting lives; borne children, flown airplanes, researched neuroscience, grown flower gardens, and taught kindergartners how to tie their shoes.
They know if you're wrong about lipstick shades in the 1940s. They've read everything from Goodnight Moon to Tolstoy to The Handmaid's Tale.
They are in New York and Ohio and Alabama and Alaska and California and Hawaii and Quebec.
And they are invariably—invariably—nice people. Goodhearted, friendly, honorable. They give back to their communities. They watch out for the children of others. They hold doors open for the next person. They bake cookies for new neighbors.
I cling to this in times like these, floundering in the tidal wave of sadness and outrage over the actions of a despicable human in Uvalde, Texas. As we shriek at each other about gun control, condemning this country and its history of losing innocents to madmen with weapons, about what this world has come to...let us not view the past through some sparkly, nostalgic haze. People have been cruel and brutal to each other since time began. Evil is nothing new.
I don't claim to have the answers, but I know this: we, as a community, must watch and listen for signs of an impending disaster like Salvador Ramos. Time and time again, those intent on carrying out these hellish missions post about it on social media. They practically wave red flags to those around them.
And we have to say something. We have to do something. We have to be proactive. We have to protect our children in every possible way.
We have to stop teenagers from being able to buy assault rifles. This kid was eighteen and had legal access to firearms that virtually screamed public danger. How is that possible? At the very, very least, we should raise the age to twenty-five to purchase these kinds of weapons.
Or stop the legal sale of them altogether, which is my preference.
I'm not here to argue gun control legislation.
I'm here asking everyone to pay closer attention to those who show potential to harm others. See something, say something. (And Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter are duty-bound to do the same.)
Mostly, I'm here to remind you evil people live in the shadows, a tiny fraction surrounded by the overwhelming light of good people. I know, I meet them every single week.
Love from Delta
Friday, January 21, 2022
I'm Not Even Thor About This
It was a strange day.
Saturday, October 31, 2020
Power to the People
We lost electricity in my house in the wee hours of Thursday morning, abruptly and with no fanfare. The internet went first, because at 2:40 am Alexa noticed a loss of connectivity and automatically/cruelly/inexplicably turned on my bedside lamp, which was interrogation-room bright in my sleeping face. I stumbled through the house manually switching off lights the AI decided must dilate my exasperated pupils.
Maybe it was warning me of the darkness to come. The precious light I take for granted soon disappeared, along with every modern appliance and running water, because our well has an electric pump.
Being powerless was an inconvenience for the first day or so. Now it's a massive grievance I carry like a battery-powered chip on my shoulder. I just drove a mile to hand wash a few pieces of clothing far past their socially acceptable expiration date, and they're hanging on deck chairs to dry. My husband brings in massive containers of water so we can scoop it into toilet tanks for a precious flush.
This would all be much worse if I weren't married to a generator guru, who has figured out a way to power all the super-necessary stuff like WiFi and Netflix. It's cool enough outside to keep me from being non-air-conditioned homicidal. (Florida and its hurricanes brought me close to the edge in ninety-five degree heat more than once. I thought I was escaping all that, but Zeta tracked me to the mountains of northeast Alabama.)
I offered Mom popcorn last night and actually placed the bag in the microwave before realizing how futile my life is right now.
Alabama Power now says they expect to restore our electricity by 11:45 pm on November 5th, over one full week after this tropical storm blustered through our state. I am having a hard time with that. While I fully appreciate the hard work and dedication of countless people trying to restore power, I am less than delighted with their bosses and boss's bosses. The company has been non-responsive to me and all the friends I know who've tried to report outages or get updates, failing to keep their website and phone lines functional. Meanwhile, I'm driving daily under three massive trees that are solely supported by power lines near our house. Our neighbor's power pole is splintered like a shipwreck, its power lines a tangle of electrical kelp.
I am clearly reliant on modern conveniences like flush toilets and whatnot, and grateful to my generator guru husband. He's that kind of guy: a (male) friend Jay once rescued when his Jeep broke down said he had the wheel off, a tent set up and something roasting on a spit by the roadside within ten minutes. If Alabama Power won't charge up to my downed power lines within a week, at least I have this guy on a white horse wielding extension cords and water jugs.
Love from Delta.