A hospital bed offers a unique vantage point for observing today's real world and fake world and to mull our national healthcare dilemma. On the latter: 

Do we:

• Grant the right to access healthcare even though you won't be able to afford what’s available (as at Tiffany Jewelers where nobody stops window shoppers from looking)?
  OR
• Grant the right to have healthcare (as in being a consumer of Medicare/Medicaid or ACA, complete with subsidies and costs spread across society, even among members who prefer Emergency Room visits over paying for their own coverage?

Being in the second category - and recently downed by an odd infection out of the blue - I got entry to the ER and a bed. It’s a bed that takes on a life of its own, swelling its mattress in rolling waves to minimize the undesirable effects of bedrest. In addition, I got an x-ray; scan; blood tests; two IV antibiotics hanging from a rolling pole; beeping monitors; and doctors and nurses staring intently at me and my vitals, keying data on computer screens.

Add to that three squares a day plus a bulky TV remote to wield and all the hours of courtroom drama a body can take: Court TV, with sagas of judicious reasoning butting up against wrong-headedness, error and folly. 

As the IV drips and hours pass, a parade of health care workers enters my life. I watch one trim housekeeper swab the hospital room floor, poised and smiling, and I think, “It may not be the job she wants; but she performs it like any pro applying herself to a task." 

Next is an amiable aide who delivers lunch. He comments about my iPad mini. We talk technology and medical advances and wind our way onto how to pay for uncovered conditions and ills. How to pay, indeed.

Throughout the evening, I watch a willowy nurse breeze in and out of the room. With 32 beds full, she is as competent and caring as any gold-standard nurse can be. A marvel, such people. Stretched by a full house, she still misses nothing on my must-have list. She isn’t alone.

The staff attending to my needs during the night is quiet and efficient. When asked, a few say they immigrated here - from Cambodia, Vietnam or the Philippines - and haven’t seen loved ones in years. There’s a pretty single mom who frets over her pre-adolescent son sulking at home. Another has two babies over whom I can gush as their faces light up her cellphone screen.

Early mornings, I chat with a nurse practitioner who juggles her duties and the needs of her three young children. She appears serene. A compassionate young MD appears (picture Kevin of “The Wonder Years,” grown up and practicing medicine.) He cheers as he makes his rounds, especially when he and specialists agree I’m on the other side of this mysterious bump in my road, ultimately diagnosed as a case of "Bad luck."

I depended on all these people. As I dress in street clothes for discharge, it occurs to me it’s no small feat their achieving job success - from hospital maintenance to required degrees. With the uphill climb some people face in our society, it is miraculous.

This was brought home in a PBS Independent Lens documentary (and Sundance award winner) called The Bad Kids in which at-risk youth overcame challenges and graduated in a nurturing environment. The school’s caring philosophy overrode the garbage life hurled at them from birth: parental mental illness, alcoholism, abandonment, drug addiction, sexual abuse, bullying and self-hate impulses to inflict wounds on their own bodies. Without role models but with prodding from committed school staff, teens inched toward training and earning a living and away from a courtroom podium or fame on Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil.

A wag once dismissively remarked we’re all here for someone else’s amusement. Today's TV courtroom audiences laugh. Snarky Internet comments - so superior, dismissive and cruel - suggest we're all a joke to someone. But, my country’s real people can't merely be a joke. Many struggle to get to the other side of bad luck, to flee the most threatening circumstance life's presented; if not physical ills they haven't the cash to correct, then their own dysfunctional habits or wrongheadedness. A lot of young people raised themselves and have yet to learn how to be part of a compassionate society. 

It seems, whatever our station in life, with all due respect, we're better off viewing ourselves as in this life together (without exception) and we're better off pulling society's oar in the same direction. 

by Reggie Morrisey

In honor of the late journalist Jimmy Breslin (October 217, 1930 - March 19, 2017), who always told the real story as he saw it.

Watching videos of my fellow Americans erupt at the town hall meetings of Republican legislators around the country was unnerving but understandable. The party is voting with abandon against the best interests of average citizens and bent on dismantling the government. Part of me - the polite part my mother influenced - wishes there was an alternative to impolite protests; but I do not know what that is. Being “nice” isn’t always the way to go.

Americans say they are outraged, scared and frustrated by majority rule of a party that appears to care not for them. Citizens who never attended a meeting with their representatives are to be commended for showing up, even to yell like crazy.

We appear under siege by a cold-hearted right. There is a certain embarrassment to it – the end of an America that is a land of fairness, opportunity and compassion. Appalled we stand before an uncomprehending world. Still, I reject the shame-based society being created by the 45^th president’s in his name calling and echoed in the harshest town halls. How to balance opposition with civility? Starting with the example of the president would help.

I’ve written to legislators what I hope are fairly civil messages - via emails, letters and postcards - opposing plans to dismantle the EPA, usher in contamination of streams by mining companies, ensure mentally ill people have access to guns and deprive millions of people of affordable health care. Still to come are messages I will send supporting reproductive rights and an equitable, financially solvent Social Security.

Then, too, I’ll object to plans that undercut the public-school system with private-school and for-profit online school vouchers in the name of “school choice” (which we’ve always had – minus tax dollars) and to the suggestion of insurance coupons to replace Medicare. 

Being in favor of something is worthwhile, too. It was refreshing to be one of 550 in attendance at the first town hall of Congressman Charlie Crist in St. Petersburg, Florida, on March 4.

As we entered the University of South Florida ballroom for the Crist meeting, organizers distributed tickets to anyone who wanted to ask a question. The numbered tickets were the perforated kind you get at a raffle – torn in two so you keep one side and the other is tossed in a bowl for random picks.

When the meeting got underway, a member of Crist’s team called out numbers and people were handed microphones to speak. The event far exceeded its original two-hour limit, so my guess is every questioner got a turn at the microphone. They also got Crist's personal cell phone number.

Crist urged a golden rule approach in respect for all speakers. The crowd raised pressing issues and thanked the congressman for defending their rights. Crist said he had managed to attend the January 21 St. Petersburg Women’s March that drew 24,000 people. Between the two events, he should be bolstered by visions of his home-town cheering squad as he fights the good fight in Washington.

Midway in the Crist town hall meeting, a man stood and belligerently demanded the opposition be allowed to speak in this “rigged” liberal-biased ticket system. I was perplexed. How could the tickets be rigged? No place to check a box as a Liberal or Conservative questioner. Rigged raffle tickets? The crowd grumbled. Where did he unearth this interpretation of reality?

I think it was fueled by the rantings of the 45^th president with his bunker-under-siege mentality. It regurgitates hot-button words like “Benghazi” and “Deplorables.” Now, the surly president’s supporters say “Rigged” in the most benign situations.

If you think what is going on in the administration is wrong, that the facts spouted are bogus, show up however you can - in person, phone calls, emails, snail mail. A stamped postcard costs $.38. It has enough room to state your case and sign off. Buy some postcards. And WRITE ALL IN CAPS if you must.

by Reggie Morrisey

For those who’ve visited my blog since the November presidential election, I may seem under siege. It wasn’t always so. Today, I yield to the temptation to step away from the fray to recall less trying times - a month of Sundays.

Morning, September 2016: Balcony of a fourth-floor studio apartment, Port Vendres du Ville, the South of France. The view is as promised in a Homeaway ad by Yvette, our French vacation rental agent. Our eyes sweep tree-tops of a park that is perched above a quay. Beyond the trees, fishing and pleasure boats bob in the 250-slip marina and brawny cargo ships from Africa wait a turn with the shipyard’s swinging cranes. In the distance is the port’s lighthouse and the Mediterranean Sea.

To the left, I see the first rays of the sun fall across a line of red-tiled roofs, newish houses rising above the deep-water port that dates back to the Iron Age and the Romans. Beyond the houses are mountains stretching above a coastal road. From straight ahead comes the toll of a bell from a church tower - one of two scheduled to charm us by the half-hour throughout the day. 

Flocks of seagulls, pigeons and sparrows - commoners all - share our fortunate view. Strays occasionally alight on the balcony to scout for croissant crumbs, especially when we shutter our place and set off across the park and down the stone steps to catch a local bus for an outing.

After one such coastal bus ride along a switchback road through steep vineyards, we arrive at Banyul sur Mer. It is a lady-like seaside resort, a demure Victorian with sandy beach cupped by the mountains that rise toward Spain. Beyond it is an even sleepier village of Cerberes, worth a visit for the breath-taking scenery of the bus ride and quick turnaround – back to the last stop in the inland city of Perpignan.

On the road through Port Vendres toward Perpignan, it is manly Collioure that commands attention with its fortress dating back to the 1300s and modern-day knights - French commandos in camouflage maneuvering watercraft in amphibious drills. When not watching assault teams take to the sea, tourists maneuver Collioure’s warren of streets and shops chockful of objects decorated in the early 1900s Fauvist style of Matisse and Derain. Visitors huddle at cafes and crowd around tempting stalls in the farmer’s market. We fall in line, faithfully attending the Wednesday market plus Port Vendres' Saturday market; yielding to vendors who point to the day's waiting list for their rotisserie chickens and chuckling at boisterous hawkers drawing in customers with gusto.

As with trips to Banyul sur Mer and Cerberes, we take the bus to Collioure for one euro. On one occasion, we tour Collioure’s huge fortress, Chateau Royale, tailing a group with a French guide through low, arching passageways and out into a central court and light of day. There, archeologists lug pails of cannon balls from their ambitious dig. Centuries of warriors and villagers seeking shelter have left clues to unearth, whether with a shovel or a spoon.

On another day, we visit Collioure’s pebbly crescent beach spread out between the fortress and the Eglise Notre Dame des Anges, an historic church set against the seawall. We inch our way into the October water for a toe tip.

We sip coffee or wine in outdoor cafes. The wines of Languedoc-Roussillon, the Catalan region of France, are varied and well-priced, if not as well-known as northern varieties. We also dine on “fruits” of the sea - anchovies in vinaigrette and mussels in aioli sauce - that melt in the mouth. Days pass like this; in picnics, long walks and poking around – queueing at a favorite boulangerie or shopping at the nearby Super U or Lidl supermarket.

Cheese and pastry selections appear endless. Even humble green beans are packaged in perfect, chic rows. Gourmet, ready-made sauces enliven our studio meals. Bechamel drizzled on green beans and small, boiled potatoes is sublime. So, too, is Crème Anglaise on a dessert of sliced, fresh figs arrayed on a crepe.

In our travels, we connect with intriguing ex-pats; the leathery 90-year old Brit who has spent 35 of his years in the region; and the free-spirited Boomers from the United States, Ireland and England. As if catching up with the ghosts of flower-child selves, they know where to backpack, where to find the best wines, crusty baguettes and seafood that seems to leap from the water to the table. They've discovered you can board the regional train from Port Vendres' dormant station to Perpignan and a conductor may or may not demand tickets in route. The strangers we meet are delightful companions who have planted themselves here; some only part-time, all savoring the moment. We wonder how it can be done, this planting oneself in foreign soil. 

There are challenges. Most daunting: France’s major phone company, Orange, is as mystifying in its rules as the Knights Templar of the Crusades, requiring one’s passport details for a month’s cell service. Tourist-office agents share our mystification about getting phone service beyond where to purchase a 5-euro calling card. We appeal to the local techie - who operates his cave of a phone shop during bankers' hours - to puzzle the ways of Orange.  

Thanks to months of listening to French with Michel Thomas, I make my way with “Comme ci, comme ça!” French – okay if I’m the only one speaking - and preface each attempt at conversation with, “Je regrette.” I painstakingly compose a text message in French to Yvette about a dimming ceiling bulb in the studio bathroom. I secure decent Wi-Fi signals at cafes with a cordial, “Avez-vous une connexion Wi-Fi?” to Facetime with kin. 

I flip through a pocket dictionary to guess the gist of nightly news on French TV; all talk of migrants stumbling ashore, leaving mountains of life jackets behind; of terrorist plots foiled and not foiled; of idle, unemployed youth and rising nationalism. In this country that has known the horror of the Holocaust and Nazi and Fascist troops, it is hard to escape foreboding. Equally hard to escape is the madness in America as we gape at our TV screen, hearing the voice of an all-too familiar presidential candidate, saying he grabs women by their genitals.

At the end of a day, the wind kicks up, setting park trees and palm fronds swaying like grass below the balcony. An occasional motorcycle roars by, and an ambulance siren rises and falls. With the village school out, the park fills with children careening on bikes and skateboards; then just as swiftly empties. Teens arrive to fill the void, boom box in hand. We can relate as we hear them and the iconic group Queen vow, "We will ... we will .... rock you."  Such was our slice of life in Port Vendres du Ville before the fray. 

End of Part I

Reggie Morrisey

It seems half of Americans say they are already exhausted by the chaos produced by the 45^th president with his head-spinning decrees, such as a ban on people of one religious group, his selection of unqualified people for cabinet posts hellbent on dismantling the departments they are to lead, and by Republican Party moves to:

• Trash everything from health care to financial reform.
• Ensure mentally ill people can have guns.
• End environmental protections, such as safeguards that prevent polluting of our nation’s streams.

Yet, the other half of Americans do not know what all the protest by millions of people is about. Current events show that Republican campaign promises are being kept. You lost. Get over it. Case closed.

How do we who are alarmed convey the source of our dread, foreboding, horror and worry? Sarcastic skits by talk show hosts and Saturday Night Live open some eyes. Not so warnings from experienced leaders and reports by the national press; since the 45^th and his party have fomented so much distrust of them.

Even on a recently aired TV game show Family Feud, when 100 people were asked how much they trust the government – on a scale of 1-to-10 - the majority said “2.”  The majority do not trust their own government.

Departures from accepted terms add to the malignant environment. Republicans now refer to their opposition, not to “public schools” but to more sinister “government schools.” If the majority does not trust the government, how long will citizens support public schools over select religious schools or online, for-profit schools – the least-overseen sources of an education?

In an August 22, 2016 article by Ronald Radosh, adjunct fellow at the Hudson Institute, he quoted the 45th president's top adviser Steve Bannon saying he was a Leninist. When asked to explain, he elaborated: “Lenin,” he (Bannon) answered, “wanted to destroy the state, and that’s my goal too. I want to bring everything crashing down, and destroy all of today’s establishment.”

It has taken the Tea Party about a dozen years to make Bannon's statement seemingly acceptable. And, ardent Bernie Sander's activists, such as actress Susan Sarandon in her talk of starting a revolution by any means, even a loss by Hillary Clinton, did the same in one primary cycle. The expressed desire to destroy the government should be troubling to patriotic Americans. But, not a ripple in sight. 

Ever since the election, I’ve puzzled over the voting decisions of people who appear to care about their children and do everything in their power for them. It doesn’t jibe with voting for this president.  

My mind keeps returning to a surreal scenario; I picture a parent finding a crumpled school form in a kid’s backpack at the end of the day. The form reads:

Dear Elementary School Parent:

The board is reviewing the application of a 70-year old man who wants to be a school bus driver for the district. He says he doesn’t need a salary because he is unbelievably wealthy from a family business; so it would be more like a free service. We can’t confirm his wealth because he did not produce any proof, and we heard a lot of his businesses went bankrupt. Still, if it is true he doesn’t want any money from us, this is a potential budget-benefit.

Facts to consider:

1. The man doesn’t have a driver’s license. Someone suggested we could have volunteers ride the bus with him to keep an eye on things until he does get a license. That would be a good idea, given our storms, potholes, traffic and deer darting out onto our roads.
2. This man has been recorded making lewd and aggressive remarks about women. He scoffed, saying it was boys’ talk; though he was nearly 60 years old when he made the remarks.
3. The man shows he has a short fuse and tends to lash out at any board members questioning his prior experience. He relies on snide personal attacks to silence them.
4. He says his firm response shows he can keep kid’s in line - like the good old days. No more coddling, not even students with special needs. He’ll take no guff and toughen them all up.
5. He said he is leery of kids from different ethnic groups and religions who ride our buses and will toss them off the bus if he suspects the slightest trouble.
6. He’s beauty conscious. Says he can rank little girls from 1- to-10 to predict their future success.
7. He says we should trust him.

Please fill out this form and return it to the school. Let us know: Do you trust this man to deliver your child back and forth to school safely and lower our expenses, or should we go with the facts and pass on this candidate? If it is a “Yes” to hire him, would you volunteer to ride the bus and stop him from driving off the road?

Obviously, putting such a man in the school bus driver’s seat would pose a threat to children. Even a school board seriously entertaining his application would be a shock. The facts make hiring him a huge mistake. Right? So, what were people thinking when they supported and voted for an unqualified, ill-tempered, misogynistic and vindictive man to be president? I do not know. Unless they - like Bannon and the Tea Party and the revolutionary Ms. Sarandon - want to bring everything crashing down. 

Who knew so many Americans were willing to drive us all off a cliff. 

Reggie Morrisey

Falsehood flies, and truth comes limping after it, so that when men come to be undeceived, it is too late. Jonathan Swift, 1710

We Americans are to keep calm despite the declaration of “carnage” by the 45^th president of the United States as he took office January 20 – the man who won the Electoral College in a “sweep” of about 100,000 votes and who lost the people’s vote by nearly three million.

We’re told to ignore the aerial photos of his sparsely attended inauguration and absorb the “alternative facts” his spokeswoman insists prove the press is unfair to her man. Ignoring what our eyes see is no easy task for a sentient human being.

What is easy is to be immensely proud of the 20,000 women, men and children who marched peacefully in St. Petersburg, Florida, on January 21; all of us in solidarity with the nearly half a million attending the Women’s March in D.C. and millions in crowded events around the world. 

As we gathered in a St. Pete park by a marina, we spotted a rare pink flamingo flying overhead. To this Audubon chick, it was as fortuitous an omen as I could imagine. And, as a lifelong, tree-hugging environmentalist who believes “Give a hoot; Don’t pollute!” I attest those 20,000 marchers left the park lawn spotless.

Like people around the world, we rejected the new president’s history of mean-spirited speech, sexual harassment and uncommon belligerence and insisted his party be held accountable as it tries to dissolve everything from environmental protections to equal rights to health insurance to social safety nets. But, his own spokeswoman said she didn’t see the point of our marches. Where do we begin with a woman who ushered this unprepared and intemperate ruler to his throne and with others who refuse to acknowledge his threat to our freedoms?

In march photo after photo, we see women and men wearing “pussy” caps as a sign of universal distain for the sexual-predator-in-chief. Hard for me to accept I am talking about political life in the United States of America in 2017.  And to learn women supporters of the new president merely complained about how disgusting the pussy caps were; they voted for the man whose repulsive statement prompted the cap craze. Even Miss Manners of the 1950s would have paled at his nonchalant brutishness.   

We know basic respect for women now depends on this president’s desirability scale of 1-to-10. And, as his intolerant messages spread, reported hate crimes top 1,000. Never mind condemning pussy caps, ladies! This is not a normal time in our civilization. As the handmade protest signs attest, people didn’t think they would have to defend rights won over the last 200 years. Be offended by that.

If you check the January 21 aerial views of DC and St. Pete, you will see substantial march crowds. The same is true around the country and in locations around the world. But, I’m not sure how long those pesky photos will be accessible for our viewing, given their failure to support alternative facts.

Do you see a pattern here? You may not be allowed to see it in the bizarre reality barreling toward us. Time to find the next action to take to preserve life as we know it. 

Reggie Morrisey

Milling with the crowd of Christmas week visitors entering the Dali Museum on the waterfront in St. Petersburg, Florida, we wind our way up the museum’s iconic spiral staircase – described as a nod to surrealist Salvador Dali’s fascination with DNA. The staircase ends on the third floor where there is a permanent Dali collection and a current exhibit featuring “the most celebrated female artist,” Frida Kahlo.

The pair seems more than a match, enduring the war years and shimmering as stars of an avant garde art world. Museum photos document their mid-20^th Century lives – revealing threads between celebrity and daring explorations the artists made of private struggles.

The entrance to the Kahlo exhibit is a wall of densely packed, colorful flowers that reflects the persona of a Mexican artist known for a passion for the natural world. With her arched, thick eyebrows that seem to form a single brow across her temple, Frida’s face appears in much of her art. We soon learn that passion seemed to have sustained her through immense physical pain and mental anguish before her death at 47.

Frida’s will is startling, considering the paintings and drawing of so many anguished turning points in her life. This is especially affecting when one pivots from a charming painting of the young adult Frida as a passenger aboard a city bus to a nearby drawing depicting an horrific accident that broke her body and threatened to break her spirit. 

As if this torturous period wasn’t enough, years earlier, Frida endured the trauma of polio. Yet, illustrated pages of her childhood dream diary line a wall of the exhibit space and convey inward journeys Frida took to awaken what she called “her unencumbered self” - a part of her being untouched by her pain and driven to create.

Add to this her lifelong sorrow at being unable to bear a child and other suffering quintessentially feminine, and this viewer is left with more than a twinge of empathy. Still, Frida rises – as if on wings - and that may be the most important point of all.

At the end of the exhibit, we spiraled down the staircase and outdoors to the museum’s garden display of potted succulent and flowering plants reminiscent of those the artist cultivated. Inside and out, a marvel of Frida’s steel will to create - come what may – and manifest her reverence for nature.

I am taken by the notion of awakening an unencumbered self, especially when haunted by the memory of the disastrous 2016 presidential election and the prospect of chaos to come. Though the present reality does not rival the suffering Frida overcame, a sense of foreboding begs to be addressed from a place of calm.

What is a creative life, if not a refusal to settle for what appears to be real and a determination to make it what you will? To that end, I approach 2017 as I have any other year - as the 19^th Century Transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau proposed: “If you advance confidently in the direction of your dreams and endeavor to live the life you imagine, you will meet with a success unknown in common hours.” 

Henry’s words are like Frida’s paintings; far better than the life proposed by a reckless few who today appear to be assuming power over us – like an horrific accident or inescapable scourge - mindless of the pain they will inflict.  

The future must be fashioned by the unencumbered self. I wish you well, dear reader, in discovering your place of calm and – come what may - pursuing your dreams.

Reggie Morrisey, December 31, 2016

*Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Dali

I slipped out of November with a shudder and firm shake of the head to slough off the unnerving events it contained - from an aforementioned home burglary to the startling results of the presidential election. The burglary still creeps me out, discovering it as we did on Halloween and learning the ropes of a criminal case in the weeks that followed. Now to escape the lingering sense of violation of our home and nation.

I realize some fellow Americans are anywhere from giddy to unperturbed by the Electoral College count and its portent; remarkable on the face of it and the two-plus million extra votes counted for the losing candidate. Of some comfort: Charles M. Blow of The New York Times promised the president elect, "as long as there are ink and pixels, you will be the focus of my withering gaze.“

We will need it, sir. As a sage remarked in a recent political cartoon, “Those who study history are doomed to watch those who did not study it - just repeat it.” Sigh.

Still, my own approach to December begs a fresh vibe. I simply cannot proceed through life permanently horrified by the unfathomable druthers of some fellow citizens. So, I’ve resolved to pencil in time on my calendar - no more 15 minutes per day - to experience the gloom this chapter of American history dictates; to feel this awful, alarmed and exasperated.

Tougher to do is ignore the Internet's presidential-transition bulletins. I must join those who intend to banish all pings of "Breaking News," and see how that works. (Tough for a former journalist to do.) I did notice that more allegedly cute cat and dog Internet videos get my attention than at any time prior to this turning point. But, they appear to depend heavily on pratfalls, so I must wince and turn away from the tumbling cat and dog segments, too. 

Another tactic I've adopted in my bid for a fresh vibe is to notice all that is good in life, and there is plenty. Loving relationships count. Health is a definite bonus. I'll appreciate financial solvency as long as it lasts. Friendships where “never a cloud passed over us” earn my gratitude. Nature does, too.

Then, there is the tonic of hearing choral music and of singing it. On December 3, we listened to the Tampa Oratorio Singers perform songs of the season, reminding us of the privilege of singing under the direction of Nancy M. Callahan. The group is approaching its 50^th anniversary, and it is excellent.

The TOS performance at the seaside Pass-a-Grille Community Church officially opened the Christmas season for us, and it was followed by the bright lights of the annual boat parade swiftly moving across Boca Ciego Bay. There is something about such traditions that may offer comfort in uncertain times. 

Finally, I’m reminded of another choral group – the St. Petersburg College Community Chorus - with whom we also sang for a time. Someone in the audience at the city's Palladium Theater recorded a 2010 performance of the song Hallelujah (written by the late Leonard Cohen). In the Palladium video, the choral group appears as a sparkling sea of white, but the music comes through. Click the link to hear this bittersweet piece:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UP385pjkE2U

And, if it is your tradition, you might set out holiday decorations. Perhaps, for a time escape any post-November blues.

Ping: "Ben Carson to head H.U.D.!" Wait. To head the entire Unites States Department of Housing and Urban Development? What! I can't even ... 14 minutes and counting.

Founding Father Benjamin Franklin wrote, “We stand at the crossroads, each minute, each hour, each day, making choices. We choose the thoughts we allow ourselves to think, the passions we allow ourselves to feel, and the actions we allow ourselves to perform. Each choice is made in the context of whatever value system we have selected to govern our lives.”

                                                                                         ~

The detective called to say we had a meeting at the police station with the State Attorney’s lawyer about a recent burglary; our fourth station visit since the end of October when we returned from a trip to discover the crime.  We arrived on time for the meeting, as the station’s time-stamped surveillance video could attest. The lawyer said the man who admitted to the burglary had pawned jewelry at two shops.

We accompanied the detective to the first pawn shop. I felt a nanosecond of elation at the sight of my five-stone garnet pyramid ring followed by shock at also seeing a stolen gold and peridot ring and gold ankle bracelet. As the pawn shop clerk handed the detective a thumb drive with a copy of the surveillance video that showed the perpetrator in action, I wondered what else the thief had pocketed. What else? I’ll have to take another look; but it is so hard to see what is not there.

The next order of business was to “pay” the pawn shop for the stolen property. That’s how it works, explained the detective, unless we opted to leave the items at the shop. Leave them up to 10 months while the case worked its way through the courts. We paid up.

Next, we drove to the second pawn shop with some hope of finding a silver pendant – the one with the image of four female faces representing the four girls in my family. But, figured a clerk, the owner must have locked it up somewhere. We would have to come back. A few days later the detective text me a photo of a rectangular pendant and two silver necklaces from the shop that were mine.  As a courtesy, there was no charge by the pawn shop owner.

The detective did what he could, and he did well.  We wished him a Happy Thanksgiving. As to ever seeing our stolen TV and other jewelry, we could count ourselves uncommonly lucky if we do.

                                                                                             ~

Surreal life beyond the burglary goes on. We sit under a surveillance camera in the waiting room of a blood lab with a dozen people - Blacks, Hispanics and Caucasions of all ages; most hunched over cell phones that also monitor their locations.

In one corner, Fox News blathers its version of the truth as befits the coming age. No mention of the rise of campus incidents where, under the guise of taking back America, bullies hurl the name of the president elect into the faces of those they deem to be the attackable “them.” The bullies protest, “Hey, just the name, so where’s the crime?” Shades of the winning campaign. No point telling those stories on this TV station. “Them” are just immigrants, gays or “bitches.”  For Fox, their days are numbered. 

With hundreds of hate crime reports being investigated, it's a struggle to accept the "values" now in play in our society. Escape beckons, if only to be technically removed from the assault of headlines and sound bites; harder than it might seem given ever-present squawking screens. One thing is certain as the cameras roll: What Ben Franklin called a “powerful regulator of human conduct” appears more and more to be among the missing.

 by Reggie Morrisey

It is hard to see what is not there, at least until you look for it.  

Yesterday, I opened a small jewelry box in my bedroom to retrieve a ring to match my red outfit. But, the ruby ring was gone.   

Staring at the velvet rows hugging a handful of rings, more of what wasn’t there came into focus. 

A favorite gold and five-stone pyramid garnet ring purchased in 2001 was missing.

Even more alarming, a family heirloom gold ring - inherited 50 years ago  -  was gone. The ring has butterflies carved on each side of a black glass stone that is adorned with a carved bird - that inset with tiny bits of colored glass.

Later that day, I realized a rectangular silver pendant scrolled in flowery style with the faces of four females was gone; it a treasured gift received in the 1980s, representing the four sisters in my family.

Two weeks ago, when we had returned home from a trip, it was apparent our flat screen TV was missing from the living room. Police opened a criminal case about it. Today, we added documents about the missing jewelry. 

More bad news in between: Unpacking a few days after we had filed the TV theft, we also saw that a credit card hidden in a dresser was gone. Fraudulent purchases on it were accomplished with a physical card. The police opened another case. We requested credit reports to see if any other tampering with our finances was underway.

We learned a suspected drug addict unlawfully gained access to our key and invaded our home, likely - given the size of that TV - with another thief.

Heartache awaited the family of the addict who was arrested; plus shock, guilt, fear and shame. We would not wish these feelings on anyone. Yet, despite a new lock, we fear a return of the unknown second thief, and we want our possessions back.

*  *  *

Watching the presidential election results, I experienced a similar sinking feeling of loss. What to make of the sweeping aside of social values that I prize, such as equality, respect for the dignity of human beings, stewardship of the planet and cooperative efforts for world peace? 

Dread follows reports of hate crimes. Empowered Republicans plan to gut social nets - from the Affordable Care Act to Medicare and beyond - that will make a difference in individual lives when they need the programs. We will come to see what is missing of our nation’s treasures well into the future - a little at a time.

Can you see what you are looking at in the news? The assault on civility and promised loss of civil rights accepted by 50 million Americans who voted for the president elect - this as the price to pay for gaining power? Months of fake news on Facebook succeeded in misinforming friends? Attacks on freedom of the press applauded? Potty language accepted political fare? A hate-radio government waiting in the wings? 

For now, two of the bumper stickers on the pickup truck idling in front of me come into focus: A sickening “Lock her up” and malevolent “Drain the swamp.” For now, I can’t bear to see anymore. 

by Reggie Morrisey

When it comes to writing, I'm like a skateboarder who lugs his board under his arm where ever he goes and plunks it down when he comes upon an irresistible surface.  Yes!

And, like a skateboarder whose tried to master the Basics to the Ollie, I'm humbled by the years of bruising effort it takes to get it right: to start, stop, soar, not hurt myself or others and savor the daring ride in between. The sound of wheels moving across a curve. The scratch of a pen moving across paper. It's all the same thrill.

You could say writing is purely for my pleasure. That's fair. I am having a ball. But, you've got to admit, sometimes I'm compelled to report a stunning social injustice, to share a glimpse of needless pain that begs to be ended by the collective force of sentient beings. If readers are as aghast as I am by an injustice, perhaps we can move to end it together.    

This impulse to end suffering seems to be part of our DNA: I recall my first poem published in high school when I was 14 years old and grieving about the bleak Christmas facing Christians in 1960 communist Russia. And 14 years later, after producing realms of term papers and reports for school and work, I started writing poems again about joy and sorrow, wisdom and folly. Find many poems housed on this site for your reading or listening pleasure.

Minus that first teenage effort, I've been spinning away for 42 years. You could say this blog serves as my backyard quarter-pipe ramp. Once I step out the front door, a world awaits for me to plunk down my pen. And, what a trip it is!