The news coming out of Florence country right now, especially the little neglected rural towns, is heartbreaking. It’s a wonder that people choose to live in some of these places at all. But even with climate change and communal fragility eroding the very ground out from under our feet, most of us are stubborn. We’re going to rebuild. I’m not sure that’s something to be proud of, but it’s what we’ve got.
Whatever happens this year, it’s a great comfort to me to feel like the school is on my daughter’s side. They don’t always get it, but that’s what every kid deserves.
The wickeder the world gets, the more militant I get about keeping the doors of my big old Victorian open. I am forever telling friends: please come, please stay. No, really, we mean it.
Trash, when fresh, is disgusting. But with the patina of a few decades on them, those old Moxie bottles and medicine tins begin to take on something of the dignity of old Pompeii.
Music lives in the ether now. We can have it anywhere. We need never lose anything again. Still, place matters. Being together, singing and dancing together, the same dirt on all our shoes — it matters. I’m sure Pete would agree.
There’s a proposed law, the New York Health Act, that would create a single-payer health program in the state, and make healthcare free at the point of service for all New Yorkers. In the long-term, this would save us billions. The prospect of passing the taxes needed to pull it off, which would fall heavily on the state’s wealthiest households, seems radical, but not unimaginable.
I confess I feel like a real Pollyanna being surprised by this, but a SUNY New Paltz professor’s avuncular dogwhistling honestly shocked me more than anything else in the news this week.
I was surprised at how much a few minutes of training affected me. Walking out of the event into the cool evening air, with a few dozen of my neighbors who had all been newly empowered to save a life in a crisis, I felt an unexpected rush of optimism. It’s not much, having a plastic baggie of naloxone to keep in the glove compartment in case of emergency, but it made me feel like part of the solution, not just a helpless, hand-wringing spectator.
Truth be told, as this administration slides deeper and deeper into wanton cruelty, I long for incivility. I yearn for it. I am filled with intemperate rage.
Thoughts on the lack of maternity wards in rural areas and the effects of separating migrant children from their families.