I read Queen Isabella insisted Christopher Columbus transport pigs on his 1492 journey to the New World. The Canary Island herd introduced virulent infectious diseases - including trichinosis – to the natives. With no immunity, the natives died in droves.

Fast forward to 2016, when I was a native of a civilized land, led for eight years by a civilized president, Barack H. Obama. Foreign to me and infecting the culture: virulent racism, sexism, misogyny, xenophobia, science denial, white supremacy and distain for all but rich white men.

Power brokers in the Electoral College insisted on selecting Donald Trump, a boorish president, one so alien to the halls of government, he trashes them daily with mud and rubbish. 

Donald Trump, Jr. is like his father, when shown holding a large cookie bearing a poor resemblance to the face of Obama. Junior is grinning as if he is Donald the Conqueror, as if holding a cookie proves anything. He holds a cookie lamely, like the Great White Hunter holding a tail cut off an African elephant. Cookie? Elephant tail? Junior might just as well be rutting for truffles. His nose is pointed to a place and down it goes … for fungus.

A current herd of pigs is leading us into treacherous territory. Lawmakers in consort with Trump behaved, as MSNBC’s Lawrence O’Donnell pointed out, like “pigs to the trough” as they passed a tax cut for the rich that will leave America vulnerable to catastrophes. Will there be a bridge collapse? A cyberattack? Republicans are blasé. Any required funds will be stolen – because fiscal conservatives must steal - from Medicaid, Medicare and Social Security.

Timothy Egan of The New York Times wrote, ‘“Liar,” as applied to Trump, is something that can be quantifiably proven. A mere 4 percent of the president’s public statements — 4 in 100! — have been rated true by PolitiFact.”

And what can be said about the grinning senior Trump, winning the "War on Christmas"? America's 45th president says acknowledging non-Christian celebrations with "Happy Holidays!" should be reviled as politically correct. 

Such antics are hard to stomach, especially in light of Obama’s manners, grace and intelligence, his compassionate ways, his savvy wife and well-bred daughters.

In the shadow of Trump's climate-change denial, assault on healthcare, theft of women’s reproductive rights, callousness toward Dreamers and the acceptance by half the country of Trump’s disgusting sexual-assault boasts, the sick thinking defies logic. Once again, we see what lies down the road. Natives sacrificed in droves.

Like so much of history, it will cause pain to millions. So, it appeared in the United Nations, when 128 countries resisted Trump’s Jerusalem edict, one likely to spark a crisis in the Middle East. His representative at the U.N., Nikki Haley, whom I had judged to be merely his typically contemptuous and ill-suited agent, emerged as quite the boor, vowing retribution for the resolution against Mr. Money Bags. They are taking names. They will “remember” who stood against him.

Sickening words to those who do not view the United States as brutish and bullying.

My goal as 2017 ends and a new year begins is to not let any pig viruses slay me. It will take some doing to overcome the assaults on the body politic. How about daily doses of intelligent human contact and minimal exposure to ignorance and hate. Focus on what is noble, uplifting, peace-making and rational in the world. On advances in science and in thwarting the damage from global warming. On sparks of judicial sanity in the face of partisan wrongheadedness. On defense of facts from reliable sources. On voting.

For now, all I can say, people, is, “I feel a march coming on.”

See the Resistance Calendar for January 20, 2018

"I am constantly choosing the contents of my mind, since no one else can make this choice for me."
From Love is Letting Go of Fear by Gerald. G. Jampolsky

                                                                       *  *  *

When Vincent Mancuso and I got together 27 years ago in New York on December 1, 1990, a friend predicted, “He will bring so much beauty to your life and the lives of your daughters.”

As an artist who studied portraiture in the Classical Realist style and would render landscape and seascape Earth Portraits exhibited in galleries in the Northeast and South, Vince has graced our home with treasured family portraits that are NFS (not for sale).

Vince’s artist’s eye has allowed us to savor our travel adventures for many years after – in photo albums and videos we created. Compiling works of art and poetry into a book to celebrate 20 years of a shared creative life added to our delight.

As a former owner of a fabric, wallcovering and flooring shop, Vince showed a flair for décor we’ve tapped in furnishing an 1860s farmhouse in New York and a Florida island garden apartment and city condo. Plus, he is handy – fixing anything from a plaster cast of a smiling chef to a bike (that he taught me to ride at age 52) to a kitchen faucet.

As if this weren’t enough to warrant my notice, Vince loves to cook. Drum roll, please. I stepped into the role of sous chef after 20 years of preparing meals for children's appetites and thereafter savored his gourmet fare. Early on, my two teenage daughters spent hours cooking with Vince, cranking out homemade pasta. Each June, they handed him cards wishing a happy day to their “Father figure.”

Fast forward to 2017: I see Vince surpassed his record in Thanksgiving and post-Thanksgiving culinary feats. In addition to a roast turkey, sausage stuffing, gravy, maple-balsamic Brussels sprout and sweet potato casserole plus an apple-cranberry crumb pie, he prepared and froze:

• Turkey Tetrazzinni casserole
• Turkey Divan casserole
• Stuffing-Crust Turkey Pot Pie
• Turkey Soup (four quarts)

My freezer overfloweth, as does my cup of thanks. After 11 years as partners and 16 as a married couple, I know kind fortune, especially in a world marred by selfishness, deception and cruelty.

Sixteenth Century writer Marcel de Montaigne said, “If there is such a thing as a good marriage, it is because it resembles friendship more than love.” I hadn’t considered the two to be mutually exclusive, but having friendship as a starting and end point strikes me as a good thing in bringing forth love. As predicted, I see the man has graced my life with so much beauty.

The following is part of a poem I wrote for Vince on his birthday in 1990, one of many occasions to be mindful of “what is good” in life:

For Vincenzo’s 40-something Birthday

… And here we are now,
on a white farmhouse porch,
eating melon
at the cutting edge of sweet.
Smelling mowed lawns and
tall grass,
as a princess rabbit of no wrath
rattles her airy cage,
as house swallows catcall
to unsuspecting jays.

Here we are now,
counting our blessings,
as horses take to the pasture,
heads bowed to graze.

Our bodies silky
with an afternoon swim.
With silence as fine
as sand on the beach.
We are free to laugh,
free to speak, and
still with time to praise
the geese trumpeting sunset
above a pond in sunset’s blaze.

As memories come and go,
Not bad for a 40-something page.

                                                        *  *  *

Writer Joshua Rothman threatened to cloud my view in the recent New Yorker article, The Case for Not Being Born, about anti-natalist philosopher David Benatar. Though when questioned in surveys, people say life is good, Rothmans writes, “Benatar believes that they are mistaken. ‘The quality of human life is, contrary to what many people think, actually quite appalling,' he (Benatar) writes, in The Human Predicament."' 

This philosopher grieves for people who concur with his vision. “They have an accurate view of reality, and they’re paying the price for it.”

No doubt suffering is part of life and at times overwhelming. But, Benatar deems us trapped in life because death is even worse. He didn't offer any data on that.

I will continue to choose the contents of my mind as this December unfolds, and I will revisit the book, Love is Letting Go of Fear, which was a gift from Vince in 1990. I'll also continue to side with Dr. Seuss in his view of life: “If you hadn’t been born, you might be a wasn’t. A wasn’t has no fun at all, no he doesn’t.” From what I've seen, that's true.

by Reggie Morrisey

Since last summer, we've been making phone calls to re-elect our Democratic mayor rather than let St. Petersburg, Florida, fall into the hands of the Republicans. Our man, Rick Kriseman, won on November 7.

Before he did win, the race had the feel of a nail biter, especially once the local newspaper, the Tampa Bay Times, threw its weight to endorse the former mayor, Rick Baker, a Republican in power from 2001 to 2010 (followed by another Republican until 2014). In the August primary, Democrat Kriseman led Baker by just 70 votes - this after an endorsement by former president, Barack Obama.

To the Times, the unending and inescapable story to run about the first-term Democrat was a sewage crisis occurring under his watch. 

Kriseman did tackle the serious infrastructure issue. I’ll say it again: He did tackle it. Reports rightly questioned how it was handled. But, Kriseman did not personally open the valves in the city’s sewer system that led to problems after summer storms in 2016 and, to a lesser extent, after this year's Hurricane Irma. As the Times ran with the story, you could just about picture the mayor in hard hat, malevolently spinning those valves to ruin the city he serves. Pshaw!

More telling: The Times made scant mention of the 14-years during which Republicans did nothing - nada - zip - of significance to improve the city’s aging infrastructure. I also don’t recall prior Times stories demanding Republicans act.

The newspaper sniffed that the race should be nonpartisan. I struggled to see the reasoning in that stance, since - like the major parties - the Democratic mayor and former Republican mayor philosophically diverge on major environmental, social and development issues:

• Kriseman’s term featured the introduction of recycling for individual homeowners. The Republicans had years to tackle that.   
• Kriseman stood with climate change and environmental activists in demonstrations against oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and for action against climate change. Didn’t spot Baker demonstrating.  
• Kriseman presented the city as embracing diversity and inclusion. He promoted and marched in the annual Gay Pride parade. Baker is not the retiring type. Has  been known to strum his guitar at the city's famed Saturday Morning Market. Was Baker seen marching in the parade or as removed from it as he was while mayor?
• Kriseman’s public service includes communications, sending weekly Sunblast e-mails to citizens, enhancing awareness of the city’s issues and accomplishments and announcing events the public could attend.
• Under Kriseman, housing attracting young professionals rose along mid-Central Avenue, transforming the Edge into a thoroughly modern neighborhood with a youthful vibe - unlike the bleak stretch we knew it to be for years.  
• When Kriseman was asked how he’d bring affordable housing to an impoverished south-side neighborhood, he said he would do it by slating $15 million for builds. By contrast, Baker said he’d give away plots to Habitat for Humanity.*

Republicans do prefer that charities tackle the societal work Democrats see as governmental imperatives. As noble a cause as Habitat for Humanity is, applying $15 million to address the problem will be more far reaching than the occasional ribbon-cutting ceremony.

Still, the Times thought it unseemly to bring up Republican Baker’s ties to the Republican Party, Florida's Governor Rick Scott and Donald Trump. The party of No. No taxes. No tax-fueled infrastructure repair. No climate change. Sound familiar, even if filling a non-partisan position? 

The majority of citizens rejected the non-partisan premise – beating Baker by more than 2,000 votes. (In defeat, Baker left out any reference to Kriseman’s win, a gracious concession statement he chose to leave unsaid.)

The Times ran with this grudging, back-handed, post-election headline: "Great job, Mayor Kriseman, now don't blow it."

“We embrace light and love here," Mayor Kriseman said on Election night. "We drive out darkness and division.”

In this nationwide, toxic political climate, Kriseman's forward-looking message appealed to voters. It is worth sending out across the country into 2018. 

by Reggie Morrisey

*See a prior post In My Little Town about the passions running deep in this election, especially demands to bring housing to the south side of the city. 

I hear the violin strains of the instrumental Intermezzo for the Mascagni opera Cavalleria rusticana and, with the music, in saunters my mother, ready to sing and soothe my soul. Though my mother died 40 years ago on October 31, hearing any one of hundreds of classical music pieces produces the same sweet vision.

"Hit it, maestro!"

"Hello, Mom!"

Were she to return, my mother might recognize herself in my mirror; but she would not recognize my life. The life in suburban New York that she knew had ended in divorce and spun out to California, back East to a lakeside cottage, then to a horse farm and on to Florida - all to the good. No doubt, she would adore my husband and partner of 27 years, my grown daughters, their fine men and my grandchildren.

I'm not sure my mother would fathom my path into writing that started in earnest in 1981. Such a far-fetched idea, writing for a living. She knew no one who did such a thing, certainly not any women.  So, I’d be somewhat peculiar. Being kind, Mom might pause to consider this turn of events as she wiped her glasses, then suggest coffee and look around for a stereo to play. 

Forty years is a long time to miss such a lovely lady, just as 48 years is a long time to miss my father; 21 years my brother Jim; 20 years my sister Charlotte; eight years my brother Ed and sister Monica; and four years my sister Peg. Add to that their spouses and, tragically, some of their children, and you’re looking at a crowd of beloveds I’ll never see in the flesh again.

But, thankfully they all sang, so, I see them when I hear their music. For my father, that would be Pagliacci; for Jim, Mozart and Wagner’s Tannhauser; for Charlotte, Glenn Miller and Broadway musicals; for Ed, 50s rock ‘n roll and Scheherazade; for Monica, Elvis and Ave Maria; for Peg, Shostakovich.  I'm reminded it is a miraculous gift to have shared existence with them, especially considering the chance of being alive at all is 1 in 400,000 trillion.                                           

So, I listen to plenty of music. When my children have occasion to miss me, I imagine they'll find me traipsing in on some melody. And, I’ve already laid the groundwork for my grandchildren with a song that I pump up the volume on whenever I see them: Pharrell Williams, Happy.

After a summer sojourn in New York, Connecticut and Rhode Island, on our way south we booked into a hotel off Interstate-95 in the northeast corner of North Carolina to wait out Hurricane Irma as it tore through Florida and the South.

With all the scrambling, dire warnings and dislocation from the storm, fellow travelers seemed frantic. Even little children sharing our table at the hotel’s complimentary breakfast dug into their Lucky Charms and waffles and hazarded an anxious, “Be safe!” to strangers who walked by.

Venturing out to explore the area on Day 1, we came upon a bleak city center – a mid-century commercial hub abandoned in favor of an obligatory Walmart, Target and lesser chains. Five days passed into night as we hunkered down in a tidy suite with our slumbering cat, a deck of cards and the TV remote, flipping between the Weather Channel and cable news. At night, we went in search of dinner, only to marvel at the options we encountered.

According to TripAdvisor, Best-N-Burgers is rated 2^nd of 100+ local eateries. This was jaw-dropping news because its mush-in-a-bun was the kind of alarming mouthful that defies description. Hamburger? Ah, no.

The nearby Cracker Barrel Restaurant & Country Store, with what one reviewer called, “great, reliable comfort food,” failed at basic math. After quite the wait one night, I went back to the hotel and uncovered the takeout dinner of - not the promised six - but three grilled chicken tenderloins – paltry ones at that.

A comic once described Cracker Barrel Country Store as “a toxic cute dump," crammed as it is with tottering knick-knacks, frilly dolls, jewelry, clothes and seasonal candy, its air thick with competing scents of candles. Perhaps Cracker Barrel restaurant employees figure customers will be so overwhelmed by the challenge of getting out of the place we won’t notice pesky meal details. Given home-burned broccoli and sad mashed potatoes, I noticed.

“People are parked in hotel rooms around here, waiting to learn if they’ll even have a place to go home to,” I said to the restaurant manager in a phone call requesting money back. “It’s not very hospitable to send me out into the night with half a meal.”

Forget about what awaited us at Bojangles or Chili’s. 

Too much time on my hands, that’s what it was, or maybe I wouldn’t have cared. But culinary shocks cannot go unnoticed so soon after the chilled oysters and boiled lobsters and sweet corn and tomatoes of New York, Connecticut and Rhode Island.

All in all, we were fortunate travelers caught up in a weather drama. But, we feel for the America that took to southbound Interstate-95 after the brutal storm, in some cases their vehicles packed with cranky babies, sullen teens and earthly possessions and crawling along the road at five miles an hour. Time and again, we all queued anxiously at gas stations and stood in long lines at restrooms and fast food counters as road crews filed in from their convoys of power-company trucks, and we watched them march by like troops. Indeed, they were our trusty storm troops.

Arriving in St. Petersburg, we found our home intact and power on. It was such a relief, we nearly danced a jig; our enthusiasm tempered by concern for those lacking intact homes, dry land and electricity. Now, we see twice-hit Puerto Rico faces months without any power and leveled Caribbean islands are equally devastated.

Our country has so many issues to tackle. So many struggling towns and families. As Americans, we should at least be urged to see each other. So, I cannot fathom why the occupant of the White House felt compelled to shoot off 17 nasty tweets this weekend condemning black football players taking to bended knee over social injustice when he could have acknowledged the struggles of storm-tossed citizens. Surely, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, there looms an unnatural disaster-a-day affecting us all. 

As always, the tweeter distracts and inflames those who express loyalty to country without acknowledging what needs fixing. Reading comments in The New York Times complaining that players shouldn't irritate fans with their pregame protests, I responded to one man:

Sir, this is not about you. If players stopped the action during a game to express their resistance to injustice, you’d have a legitimate gripe.
Black neighborhoods are patrolled like war zones and videos reveal disturbing police violence in black neighborhoods. In too many instances, wary officers are equipped for civil disobedience but not trained to forge relationships in communities, especially when the nation’s leaders egg them on to violence, as does the calculating troublemaker in the White House.
Words and intent matter. If we are to sing a pre-game battle song to honor our soldiers and veterans, let that be the stated goal. To many black Americans, we are yet to be the land of the free. If high-paid black football players feel compelled to show their solidarity with fellow blacks, we the people who seek a more perfect union, justice, domestic tranquility and the common welfare should be bowing our heads with them.

At Saturday’s Global Citizens Concert in Central Park, the incomparable Stevie Wonder got down on both knees.  

We’re all holed up, waiting out the latest unnatural disaster. And with no trusty storm troops around to make things right.

It’s 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday in August as we enter the gate to Twin Star Orchards in the Hudson Valley in New York. My husband and I and another woman follow a pretty young tai chi instructor in white garb past the red barn of Brooklyn Cider House and nearby pavilion to the side of a pond. Honking Canada geese fly low and cruise to a stop in the water. Trees laden with ripening apples surround us, neat rows fanning out to far fields.

A weeping willow casts feathery shadows on us as Instructor Jing Shuai pours cups of green tea. The air temperature reaches 60 degrees, and the sun is warming our backs as we face the still water in an opening tai chi stance for the first lesson of the day: Relax.

For Vince and me, this is one of three utterly tranquil spots on Earth where we’ve joined others in practicing this martial art, over time learning its 108 lyrically named postures: Once in Belize on a rooftop deck of a house facing the Caribbean where ex-pats led a class of newbies and more recently with Taoist Tai Chi students in a city park overlooking a St. Petersburg, Florida, marina. In Belize, exotic birds filled the air with their cries and a mammoth frigate bird soared. In St. Petersburg, blue jays chattered in the trees and egrets swooped over moored sailboats. At such exquisite moments, I am deeply moved and grateful.

On this beautiful Hudson Valley day, the tai chi instructor says accepting the colliding energies of the universe demands quick wits and quick moves – to back away from the reach of an attacker, to turn in smooth deflection, to assume a sturdy posture of defense or execute a rapid counter-attack. Sounds right to me.

These days, I find relaxing a stretch - with America itself in danger from within. So, I adopt something of a mental, martial-art stance in the comment section of The New York Times. Nothing less will do when responding to word of the potty-mouthed Anthony Scaramucci and to the insufferable Ken Starr cautioning against too far-reaching investigations of the whiny man on vacation from the “dump” he’s forced to inhabit.

In all ways, I’m seeking balance as a stance in life that keeps me from being knocked down by malevolent forces. It’s not as if I’ll be here forever. One of these days, I’ll be a feathery shadow on a few lives left behind and with no ink spilled on Internet comment pages to make a fleeting point or defend anyone. For now, I must act with like-minded Americans who circled the Capital, protesting into the night against the repeal of healthcare. I will defend our gorgeous planet and precious human rights. 

There is Yin and Yang, light and dark contrary forces. Given cause, I execute a tai chi Single Whip to the errant far-right! A Brush Knee to deflect those who would tear down our social safety nets. I can Wave Hands Like Clouds to ward off dark forces bent on destroying liberties. Then, too, I will be ready to bow and cover a “boundless” right fist with my left hand to engage peacefully with the world.

Taking a Stance in The New York Times

ReggieM August 6, 2017
Florida 1 day ago

Despicable Ken Starr may look like the solid citizen in dark suit who counts the coins collected at Sunday service; but he is never to be trusted.

Ken Starr trampled Monica Lewinsky’s right to privacy in revealing her therapist’s notes. Such men will stop at nothing to get what they want. It is galling to hear him caution a worthy public servant.

If this public servant finds that the president ushered in by the Electoral College dabbled in crookery beyond the 2016 election, are we not to glance that way? Would that be beyond the pale for the purist Ken Starr? He insults us all by showing his face, let alone opining on what is prudent and lawful. Be gone! We have enough problems without a nasty blast from the past.
• 140 Recommend 

ReggieM
 Florida July 30, 2017

I find this so-called president and his new Mooch horrifying. Here are two reprehensible men who somehow got Ivy-League degrees but went out of their way to avoid acquiring an education. Two crude dudes who show vast wealth cannot buy an iota of class or grace or substance, just air time on Fox News.

To hear that Boy Scouts were encouraged to boo former President Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton is to be reminded of the young Nazi Brown Shirts. Ugly is putting it mildly.
Who will spare us this nightmare? Certainly not the Republicans who ushered in a hateful era and tried but so far failed to upend decent healthcare for Americans. To those who are happy with this mess, I ask, how could you do this to our country?
• 827 Recommend

• ReggieM
•  Florida July 13, 2017

You are so right, Charles Blow. Please keep directing your “withering gaze” on this pariah. 

Lest we forget: Trump’s success was abetted by the outrageous character assassination of Hillary Clinton and the dereliction of duty by Electoral College members who should protect the country from such a dangerous man.

They make hay. Each day, we watch Republicans - out to destroy rules protecting the Earth, basic rights of citizens to have health care and a chance at affordable higher education and consumer protections. They mock separation of church and state, invade privacy with attacks on reproductive rights and, of course, they rally to enrich themselves and the richest among us.

All this news is fine with the misogynists – news filtered in their daily dose of Howard Stern, Don Imus, Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh or hometown shock jocks. But, elected officials who knew better did what they did to our country to accommodate this resentful bunch and gain power. We tire of asking them – Have you no shame? The answer is no.

ReggieM
Florida July 3, 2017

The 45th relies heavily on a calculating pose: “I’m crazy, so, there is nothing you can do to stop me.” It is risky gamesmanship – from the gutter. He is counting on us breaking before he does. 

Republicans have gotten too comfortable with the gutter and insanity. I’m reminded of a mock 2016 SNL news interview with a woman - satirizing the type then sitting on cable news panels. When repeatedly confronted with facts, the glassy-eyed Stepford Wife defended the indefensible, much to the interviewer’s frustration. Finally, the Trump defender shrugged off her brush with reality, saying, “Crazy don’t break.” 

So, he is not breaking, and they’re aiming to be crazy with him as he body slams civilized society. Thank you, Charles Blow, for so forcefully affirming this behavior is not normal, not acceptable and must not stand.

ReggieM
Florida 1 day ago

Trump makes 70-year olds look bad. Seeing him, you’d think they’re all overwhelmed by reality, technology, morality, civility. Well, I’m with Cher when I say, “Snap out of it!” people.

The man knows what he’s doing with his offensive words - diverting attention from Russian interference in the presidential campaign and House and Senate attempts to tear down social safety nets. He does not represent senior Americans who respect others, exhibit manners, read, spell correctly, know how to count the extra three million people who voted for Hillary and heed the counsel of years.

But, what excuse does Paul Ryan have, complaining the resistance to Republican cruelty is getting “hysterical?” Really? Hysteria is a pesky word – a disease historically associated with women. Like women get when they are, how’s does Trump put it all too often – bleeding? I say Paul Ryan is offensive, too.
• 450 Recommend

ReggieM
Florida 1 hour ago August 7, 2017

Archie Bunker gave us Trump 1.0 in the 1970s. Week after week, his theme song whined, “Guys like us, we had it made, those were the days.” Remember Archie’s contempt for higher education, his put downs of the hand-wringing and occasionally feisty Edith, his beef with changing reality. His job and neighborhood were no longer his province alone. Given half a chance, upwardly mobile, non-whites could get a shot at both prizes. They got half a chance, and the Bunkers of the world still grip the arms of their Lazy Boys, seething. One sits in the White House and calls it a dump.

The upper middle class has been reeling since the 1980s. Middle-management types – gutted from “stream-lining” corporations - were shocked by how easy it was for firms to set them adrift – forget loyalty. And how many displaced executives could sell Amway or other multi-level marketing wares to each other? Tough times.

This misery translated for Republicans into the government’s failure – a conclusion shared by those averse to paying for government programs. You can’t win for losing with people whose expectations never jive with the world they inhabit.

In our shame-based society, people refuse to admit it was strictly business that got them where they are. Trump – Bannon just echo the shaming and fear of old man, Archie. Hand-wringing wives hold their tongues. Some occasionally get feisty and refuse to hold hands.

Our interest peaked in a St. Petersburg, Florida, mayoral primary scheduled for August 29 with word that Republican Rick Baker, former mayor and current business developer, was challenging incumbent Democrat Ric Kriseman and gaining ground. Gaining the biggest donations from private PACs, too. The two men accrued a total of $1.5 million for their non-partisan mayoral campaigns, said the Tampa Bay Times.

Non-partisan, schmartison: In a show of support (and opposition to a potential Republican take-over of the city) we set off for a forum at the local Hilton. We secured seats midway in the packed meeting room. That was to be the most normal part of the evening.

Fireworks started when eight candidates for the City Council representing District 6 filed in for their forum. Given the wide swath of property the district covers - from the shops, cafes and tony condos overlooking Tampa Bay to center-city gentrifying and predominantly black neighborhoods bordering Tropicana Field, the candidates represent the interests of the city’s most -to-least privileged residents.

This fact did not sit well with protesters from the International People’s Democratic Uhuru Movement. When the strident 20-year old candidate Eritha “Akile” Cainion launched her assault on the status quo, she appeared like the figurehead on an old sailing ship, defiantly striking out to sea. The tumult that followed was tectonic. The Uhuru crowd’s approval of Cainion’s diatribe rose as if from a crack in planet Earth, denouncing slave ships and years of slavery and years of economic disappointment.

Her bitter pronouncements could have been (and were) made at Black Power press conferences in the last century. Indeed, this would be a long night spent mocking moderate black men and women candidates as “Boot Lickers” and Aunt Toms,” calls for “Reparations” and fists stabbing the air.

The frustration expressed by mostly young and explosive protesters ruled out polite discourse. For too long, neighborhoods lacking the housing, stores and services that make a thriving community mock democracy for them. The protesters reeled off losses since the upheaval of carving out room for Tropicana Field. A community of 800 lived and worked here – replaced by the stadium and a parking-lot wasteland.

It’s a situation that might prompt corporate language such as “Mistakes were made.” Too many mistakes for too long to catalog. That’s a problem for people living in our nanosecond world. Thinking in terms of the next news cycle, it is hard to compute a disheartening impasse affecting generations.

The winning mayoral candidate (likely either Kriseman or Baker) must represent nearly 260,000 residents over 237 square miles of land and water resources. Yet the fiery Uhuru-affiliated mayoral candidate Jesse Nevel just egged on the outrage over one beleaguered neighborhood. But, if years of Uhuru Chairman Omali Yeshitela’s raging failed to achieve enough gains in affordable housing and business development to enrich the community, such outbursts ultimately go nowhere.

How unfair to the young people who deserve true leadership rather than divisive sound bites. The whole exercise betrayed a lack of imagination to think beyond the buzz that comes from alienating fellow citizens, some who sympathize with valid demands that untenable conditions be addressed. Certainly, for the Uhurus, these lyrics for Simon & Garfunkel's My Little Town fit all too well:

"...And after it rains
There's a rainbow
And all of the colors are black
It's not that the colors aren't there
It's just imagination they lack
Everything's the same
Back in my little town ..."

The lack of imagination extends beyond the apoplectic Uhurus. We need a charismatic community organizer like young Barack Obamas. With $1.5 million devoted to electing someone to run my much-loved St. Petersburg for all its citizens, I must use my imagination to picture who will ultimately right this wrong.

by Reggie Morrisey

I attempt to escape the reality of a runaway U.S. government by diving into the imaginative fiction and nonfiction flying off the shelves and gems I discover in the local library. If you feel inclined to diversion, consider a handful of audiobooks about history, biography, art, music and nature.

Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders, surpasses expectations with its 166 voices narrating the fictitious events of the night Abraham Lincoln’s 11-year old deceased son was entombed in a Washington, D.C. crypt. The mournful father returned again and again through the night and held his son’s body, all the while observed by ghosts who can’t quite get themselves to give up the ghost and leave the cemetery. Adding to the mix, the author sprinkles real and imagined recollections of the grieving president throughout the tale. 

The Judgement of Paris: the revolutionary decade that gave the world Impressionism by Ross King brims with research about 19th Century Paris and the lengths to which the established art world went to render Impressionist art irrelevant. In fascinating detail, I’m reminded of the force of a public’s preference for the good old past. The Paris Salons of the 1860s judged innovative masterpieces we now treasure to be laughable, crowds laughed out loud, and the derision drove artists to despair. Not much changes in the world of art … until everything changes.

The Outermost House by Henry Beston is a 1928 masterpiece of observation and ruminating about everything from rising stars and rough sea to the Coast Guard crews patrolling Cape Cod during the naturalist's solitary year spent living in a beach cottage. It is enchanting and bittersweet to see what he sees with such reverence for nature, considering those who would imperil our planet today.

Words Without Music: A Memoir by Philip Glass intrigued me for its revelations about creativity within the world of classical music and the singlemindedness of purpose it takes to move from being considered a fool to a genius. Glass has his detractors who miss the nuance of seemingly repetitive composition. As someone who sat mesmerized during a 1984 Los Angeles performance of his avant garde Einstein on the Beach, I think he reflects his time as much as Cole Porter nailed the 1920s with Rhapsody in Blue.

Born to Run, by Bruce Springsteen, narrated in his gravelly, inimitable voice, recalls a young life so brutal it is hard to imagine how the singer rose above circumstance to succeed so mightily. His reflections on lifelong creativity, collaboration and the music business are absorbing. He is a global phenomenon. That 80,000 concert-goers in Rome can sing his Born on the 4th of July to rival a homegrown crowd in the Garden State speaks to his influence on lives everywhere.

Born A Crime: Stories from A South African Childhood by Trevor Noah made me acutely aware of America’s global impact, and it isn’t always pretty. The comedian’s story rivals Springsteen’s in its brutal childhood reality. To be of mixed race in South Africa brings its own torture. Add to his story a poisonous dose of prejudice, officially sanctioned oppression and a steep climb to reach his current success as host of The Daily Show. My admiration for Trevor Noah’s sheer guts overcomes any reservations I felt about youthful choices made in an impoverished and violent setting.

Thomas Jefferson: the art of power by Jon Meacham: Being midway in listening to this historian’s measure of the man, his admirable traits and weaknesses, I’m reminded of Jefferson’s caution about linking a particular religion and the State in our new country. The author refers to Jefferson’s vision that freedom of religion “meant to comprehend, within the mantle of its protection, the Jew and the Gentile, the Christian and Mohammedan, the Hindoo and Infidel of every denomination.” Hear! Hear!

The fact is I cannot escape my time or the human condition. A world of people is hugely influenced by and potentially hurt by events within our shores, our music, culture, art, writings, social and political debate, corporate actions and government-sanctioned behavior.

Like the subject of these books, we can bring the world we envision into being only by dogged persistence: Into being like a Declaration of Independence, an end to a civil war, a Claude Monet rendering of a garden,  a comic’s derision of deplorable behavior or a rock song lustily sung around the world.

On that note, I wish you courage to persist and a Happy 4th of July!

Indelible Memory I

It's a sunny day in the 1960s, and I'm a teen on a date, strolling around the famed Wildlife Conservation Society's Bronx Zoo. Opened in 1899, the 265-acre park within the City of New York houses creatures from the tiniest tree frogs to elephants. This is a memory of an elephant. 

My date and I stand with a lively crowd facing the fenced, open-air pen of the elephant exhibit. One elephant is working the line as people fling peanuts at him. But a creep of a guy tosses a lit cigarette butt into the elephant's trunk and grins. The elephant turns from the crowd and lumbers to a water trough, dips his trunk, then walks back to the fence and aims his full hose to douse the miscreant, wiping the grin off his face. Those of us who witnessed the exchange cheered. Still, after that encounter, the elephant is done with humans - even those with peanuts - and joins the herd in the shade.

Noble Beast Besieged

Given my regard for the long-suffering pachyderm, you may appreciate my dilemma over its service as a symbol of the Republican Party or formerly Gallant Old Party (GOP). Though that symbol took hold in the 1870s, it does not seem fair to identify the elephant with this century's “Party of No.”  

Indelible Memory II

I find it hard to forget an ugly encounter with Republicans in West Palm Beach, Florida, in 2000. 

With my husband and two friends, I had traveled across the state to join vocal picketers carrying handmade signs and urging election officials to ignore the intense political pressure from Republicans and continue to count the contested presidential vote. The state's mind-numbing Bush, Buchanan, Gore and Nader ballot was reason enough to doubt the results. (See the photo of my husband's sign.)

For  days, news cameras panned stone-faced Republican operatives who packed a West Palm municipal building. Like aging frat-boy bouncers, they blocked the halls as local officials struggled to move from office to office to decipher ballot issues. Outside, we encountered these same thugs, their bullhorns in hand, corralling picketers and issuing a dismissive shout in our faces, "Go home, losers!"

Note: With the 2016 popular vote for Hillary Clinton exceeding the “winner's" popular vote by nearly three million votes, history repeats itself for today’s "losers."

Lest We Forget

We know an election has consequences. Remember 2000 - 2008:

• The 9/11 attacks occurring under a cavalier Bush/Cheney Administration's watch - despite intelligence warnings - and due to, "No actionable intelligence," as Condoleezza Rice saw it
• A trumped-up reason to invade Iraq trumpeted by journalists - such as Judith Miller - wannabe embedded war correspondents
• War dead and crushing debt
• Privatization of the war bankrolling Halliburton and Blackwater mercenaries
• A Wall Street free-for-all and tax holiday for the rich that blew the Bill Clinton tax surplus and left us an imperiled economy

Republicans defended the madness, questioning the opposition's patriotism and filling email inboxes with diatribes. Such rants deteriorated into full-blown racial slurs when Barack H. Obama served as president. I welcomed his historic elections and watched his administration wrest the country from the financial brink and the war zones and eliminate Osama Bin Laden - with not even grudging thanks from pugnacious apologists. 

Internet debate remains tediously predictable today, down to complaints about the need to be politically correct, as if that occurs with any frequency on Facebook or other social media. Small wonder we retire to our respective corners. I long for a Walter Cronkite to report - without foxy sneers - real, non-insinuated news and calm everybody down.  I thank you, Judy Woodruff of the PBS News Hour.

Now What?

The notion in 2016 of a Republican president was alarming. The events of 2017 are all one could fear with this runaway administration and free-wheeling Congressional representatives.  We shake our heads over an alternative reality - no right to healthcare, no climate change, no problem with offshore drilling, no danger from guns in the hands of the mentally ill; no reproductive rights, only tax relief for the rich, dismantling of the government and a crusade for the pre-born. We resist, defending human rights, defending science, demanding a semblance of sanity and doubting the party in power will respond to reason.

I've read what Republicans say, and I've seen what they do. I've gazed into the eyes of their thugs and saw bruising contempt. In that ugly West Palm Beach 2000 encounter, it was brutally obvious I was no one to them - as it was obvious long ago that a creep went out of his way to harm a captive animal.

It's odd to equate the noble elephant with fear, but remember: The Republican Party has proved itself to be one callous herd. In fact, I hear the thundering hooves of condescension rounding the bend now.

by Reggie Morrisey

See

Hubris: The Inside Story of Spin, Scandal, and the Selling of the Iraq War by Michael Isikoff and David Corn  

The Path to Florida, Vanity Fair 2004

Who Caused the Economic Crisis? - FactCheck.org

Drone Photos of Quaker Resist Event

When Every Minute Counts

On October 4, 2016, we arrived at the Perpignan train station in southwest France after a short hop on a regional train from Port Vendres du Ville where we’d rented a studio apartment for a month. At Perpignan station, we watched for the track number to be posted for our high-speed train to Paris. The track number would appear 20 minutes before departure and not a minute sooner.

French Countryside

Climbing aboard our double-decker train, we located the topside seats listed on tickets purchased in advance from Loco2.com. With backpacks stowed for a four-day stay in the City of Lights, we settled in for the five-hour ride through enchanting French countryside.

First, the train lopes from station to station through flat lands by the Mediterranean. It gains speed out of the city of Montpellier. A distant range of mountains to the west intersects with a rising landscape of pasture and farmland. Lines of trees separate parcels of sloping land and grazing flocks. Despite reaching speeds well over 140 kilometers an hour in the 527 miles (or 848 km) journey, the train merely rocks gently.

At the train’s snack bar, I buy goodies to go with our home-made sandwiches and return to window-gazing. We see a thriving French agro-economy from our train window and in the cheese and meats set on our trays. A return to time-honored methods of working the soil is prized in the stone farmhouses we pass. Organic farming is big, with stiff rules for vendors to meet before calling their produce organic.

Paris 

At Gare de Lyon, we are greeted by Pascal, husband of Marie, owner of a studio apartment on Boulevard Haussmann we rented for our stay. He escorts us to a city bus, and, armed with engaging facts about his Paris, leads us in a walk to Building #85. Opening its massive doors, we step up and over a transom into a high-ceilinged marble entry hall - originally proportioned to serve a prior century’s carriages and horses.

We take the lift to reach our well-appointed top-floor studio. Pascal swings open tall French doors to two balconies overlooking the boulevard and rows of buildings with graceful mansard roofs. To the left above the tree-tops is the dome of Saint Augustin, a cathedral we will explore. Farther to the right are the gilded domes of a department store, Printemps Haussmann, that will draw us to a Guerlain perfume counter and a rooftop terrace with sweeping city views.

Pascal shows us around the studio’s modern kitchen, marble bath, ample closets and sleeper-couch. We flip through thick binders assembled by Marie - a former professor at Sorbonne University - about key sites and restaurants, navigating French TV and using the studio's free phone, even for the overseas calls we must now make to our U.S. bank to confirm, yes, it was us attempting to withdraw funds from a corner ATM in Paris - just as we had said we would a month ago. When Marie arrives, she is gracious discussing our ATM glitch in flawless English - trusting us with a shrug and a smile - and bids us to stay.

On a 2011 whirlwind week's visit to Paris, we toured the Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Musee D’Orsy, Musee Rodin, Montmarte, Notre Dame and Versailles. On this trip, we would adopt a leisurely pace. Busy Day #1 wines down with a light dinner at Le Pain Quotidien near Gare Saint-Lazare. The restaurant welcomes with its glass-enclosed space bathed in late-day sunlight. We relax over salad, Croque Monsier, pastries and the biggest and best cups of Café Americano of our stay. Walking back to the studio, we stop at a MonoPrix market. Our mission -  to buy a tube of Crazy Glue to fix the sole of my well-traveled, 15-year old Rockport walking shoes – is a feat of translation accomplished with the aid of a pocket dictionary and pantomime, prompting a mini-celebration with a startled sales clerk.

Sunny Day #2

We boarded the #21 bus to wind through prime Right-Bank streets, passing the confection of the Opera House and Louvre and then crossing the Seine River to the Left Bank. Exiting the bus at Luxembourg Gardens, I scoop up a handful of souvenir chestnuts under the trees.

A sunny autumn day seemed to have prompted half of Paris to picnic here. Children commandeer sailboats with wooden poles and run in circles around the wide pool. Elderly couples idle in metal chairs by the flowerbeds as a stream of students from the nearby Sorbonne walk by, snapping selfies. We feel warmed by the moment, aware of the fragile peace we and Paris enjoy.

Strolling the 5^th Arrondissement, we explore market stalls on tree-lined streets, pause at a café by the river and at Notre Dame in time to hear the cathedral’s throaty new bells toll the hour. After admiring the unrivaled architecture and interior of the 853-year old icon last visited in 2011 for a 9/11 memorial service, we board the bateau bus (touring boat) that makes stops at points of interest along the Seine. A brisk wind makes it wise to stay in the boat's cabin and circle the city hot spots twice, viewing the lovely Eiffel Tower, building facades and stone bridges.  

At dusk, we exited the bateau bus and walked up from the quay to cross the enormous, death-defying traffic hub of the Place de la Concorde - at this hour rife with ways to die. As our reward for darting and dodging across the circle, we gazed back to see the Eiffel Tower ablaze with twinkling lights. It is 8 p.m. A taxi to a cozy bistro, dinner and walk back to the studio complete the day.

Sunny Day #3

We set out on a brisk walk and tour of the Musee Jacquemart-André at 158 Boulevard Haussmann. The gorgeous mansion museum, with its drawing rooms, winter-garden, curving marble staircase, sculpture and paintings absorbs our afternoon, particularly a thought-provoking exhibit of works by Rembrandt. We gird ourselves with a late lunch of quiche in the museum's high-ceiling café and return later for pastries.

The temptation in Paris is to whiz from one place to another. The real pleasure is to pace yourself and prize each moment for what it holds. This might be a fragrant aroma at trendy Thierry Marx Boulangerie, a flower shop window dressed to perfection, a cadre of elegantly suited young businessmen on the move; a chic woman on a bike, her scarf lifted by the breeze. We are ever mindful of our good fortune to be in Paris.

Dreary Day #4

In the misty morning, we set out for Printemps' complex of three stores to purchase a bottle of Shalimar perfume (first the rage in 1925) and view both the rooftop vistas of the city and the interior of the stunning stained-glass dome of the store’s restaurant. We stop at one more sidewalk cafe to people watch before returning to the studio. Pascal arrives at the appointed hour and escorts us to Gare de Lyon for our (3:15 p.m.) train to the south of France.

The train will be delayed long enough for more leisured people watching. When we board the assigned car and locate our seats, we are mystified to discover there are two trains coupled on the track - trains with the same car numbers and seat numbers - that will decouple at Montpellier. A sympathetic fellow traveler escorts us to the right car, and the trains pulls from the station.

My Paris loot: a handful of chestnuts, French perfume, a tube of Crazy Glue and these memories. "C’est magnifique!”

by Reggie Morrisey

See Long Ago, Far Away: Part I