Happening in Waldo World

Well, for one thing, Curtis and Anna have come to Marble Falls for a few days from Houston. They’ve both been working from home and wanted to look at some different walls. We enjoy it when they visit because it gives David and me a break from having only each other for company. Also, Anna loves to cook and we love to eat, so it works out great for everybody. 

As for Sam and Julia, they’re in the UK, in Plymouth. Sam’s starting at Cambridge in the fall and he currently lacks clarity as to whether he’ll need to travel to the US and back in order to meet the visa requirements. Also, as of yet, they have no place to live in Cambridge and the current climate of social distancing makes home-hunting difficult. His time there will most likely mean a trip for us to the UK in the spring to cheer him on as he receives his MBA. More relevant and outstanding news is that Julia was recently interviewed by the BBC about the Chinese/American/UK cyber relationships. She was quite impressive. 

Though David continues with his volunteer work, it’s been scaled back due to different circumstances. The community garden that funnels veggies through the Helping Center is winding down the summer crops and resting a while before prepping for the fall planting. His work for Habitat was stalled for about six months but is scheduled to begin a new project in September—though he and the rest of the crew have continued their weekly “union meetings” at the local brewery. Also, his involvement at the church has lessened simply because the Sunday worship services are now online. He received a Komodo Joe grill for his birthday—looks like a spaceship—which has prompted get-togethers on our back deck, wherein various friends come over and we all chow down on brisket and talk about how we’re all staying home and not seeing anyone, except when we’re not. As to this issue, it’s no exaggeration to say that every person I know has recently visited family or friends in other towns, or has hosted family or friends from elsewhere—at all times wearing masks of course, except when they’re not. Social distancing. We’re all for it; but we’re so very bad at it. 

I’m content with writing, reading, and sewing, so staying close to home isn’t a burden at all, but we lost two really great trips that would have taken us away from here for a while. One was to the Grand Canyon, where I’ve never been and have always wanted to go. And the other was to Toronto, which included a trip to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls; and then, from Toronto, we were to take a Great Lakes cruise, stopping at the Canadian shoreside towns and, between the outings, eating good food and drinking good wine. So, considering these cancellations, we’re disappointed, which sounds whiney and selfish because others are suffering through truly devastating times while the only hit we’ve taken is the loss of a couple of vacations.

And on the happy side, Marble Falls offers all sorts of distractions to keep us interested. For one thing—and this is exciting—a Seven-Eleven is going in on Highway 281. Most people in this area don’t know what I know about the significance of Seven-Elevens in other parts of the world. For instance, in Singapore, Bangkok, and Kuala Lumpur, the Seven-Elevens are thriving centers of commerce that are linked to several social infrastructures. There you can pay your cable bill and your electric bill. Also, you can buy your mass transit passes and pay your car taxes. You can buy and receive international money orders, which is a big deal when a transient population is continuously sending money back home. At the Seven-Elevens in the states all you can do is buy junk food, get gas, and use the restroom, which, by the way, will be clean. You’d never want to use a Seven-Eleven restroom in KL. 

In addition, Highway 281 has been undergoing construction for the past year—they’re widening it from the intersection of 71 all the way into Marble Falls, so about six miles. The construction ends at 2147, the turn-off to our house; and the way the traffic is rerouted with cones and signs is confusing and dangerous. I’ve personally witnessed two bad wrecks. Also, the lane lines have been tarred over and redrawn in such a sloppy way that the Driver Assist function on my new car doesn’t know what to think. (New Lexus—I’ll post a picture!) This road work is intended to add lanes, and what’s worrisome about that is that five or six lanes ending at the four-lane bridge’ll cause a bottleneck, and there’s no widening that recently restructured bridge that we cross at least twice a day. There’ll be long lines at the light. I’m losing sleep over it. 

Another absorbing situation is what’s going on in the central residential portion of town, where the houses are a hodgepodge of shabby shacks, remodeled stately homes, spec homes, kit homes, flat little ranch houses, and houses that’ve been added to so often that stuck-on rooms just sort of drift all over the lot. For Sale signs are always going up and coming down. One fascinating thing that happened a couple of years ago is that someone cut the roof off a house in some other location, loaded the roof and the house on to massive flatbeds, hauled them to a lot in town, and brought in a crane to unload them and to place the roof back on the house. When the house was again in one piece they added an addition and deck to the back. Then, also in the back, they erected a vast two-story red barn which takes up the rest of the lot. While it was fascinating to observe a roofless splintery house being transformed into a charming home, I found the project befuddling. It would have been cheaper and easier to simply build a new house. And what are they doing in that huge barn? I have to know!

Renovations, too, are drawing my attention. Right now in the one square half-mile area, six houses are being remodeled or rebuilt. One of the older homes has been gutted and is going through a complete revamp, and because it’s one of the historicals, it’s being closely monitored because it’s required to adhere to the design of its era—although it’s two shades of purple trimmed in red with a gigantic painted cow in the front yard, so how important could the design of the era actually be?  

So, as you see, intriguing things going on in Marble Falls. Or maybe it’s just that I enjoy creating intrigue out of stuff that’s basically boring. 

Sadly, the first thing you see when you cross the Colorado River into Marble Falls is this water treatment plant. While I suppose it’s placed efficiently, it’s not attractive, which is too bad because this is really a pretty and welcoming little town.

It’s hard to believe this charming house was carried into town in two pieces on two trucks. And that barn in back belongs in the country, not the town. Why is it there? I fear I’m becoming obsessed.

Currently being renovated, this purple house is owned by an artist.

David and his Komodo Joe. Thanks for feeding us!

326 Capstone Drive. Currently for sale. Interested?

See? I didn’t make it up!

A little sporty with a smooth drive. I don’t know how most of the features in it work.

The Whole World Watches

My mother shared many of her favorite truisms with us girls. For instance, Fools’ names and fools’ faces always appear in public places. Hah. These days, when both fools and non-fools are vying for media attention, that little ditty’s no longer applicable.

Another of her sayings was Scratch where it itches, even if it’s in your britches. I guess she came from a rhyming family. No reason to include it here except that we’ve had fun with it over the years. 

The axiom she delivered in her most authoritative voice, and which has lately drawn my focus, is more crucial now than ever: Behave as though the whole world’s watching. 

Impossible to attain but worthy of aspiration. Admittedly, in keeping this philosophy always before me, I have failed. For the most part, I embarrass or shame myself on a daily basis. In fact, speaking of fitting phrases, the statement that most accurately defines me is I blush, therefore I am.

But seriously, consider it. How would you behave if the world were watching? What if cameras were following you through every minute of your days? Would you scratch in inappropriate places? Would you treat others with contempt? Would you lie or sneak or raise fists? Or would you go to some effort to act sanely and adhere to a compliant moral path? A small slice of society doesn’t care how they’re viewed or if their bad acts are immortalized. These people are called sociopaths and they’re out there. As to the rest of the populace, it’s disappointing that we’re not all pure of heart at all times; but as a fallback, when our scruples are diluted or eroded, being watched by others is the strong motivator that keeps us righteous. Like it or not, public opinion is the way in which we are accountable to one another. 

In the last weeks statues have come down—some rightfully, some needlessly; some violently, some sensibly so as to be preserved. And renaming forts is in the works—a demand that’s painless; definitely not worth getting riled about, though some aren’t prudent when it comes to picking their battles. And accurate statistics concerned with crime and justice are lifted up as evidence from both sides of the equality debate as powers ponder reassessing, possibly even defunding, police forces. 

Reasonable criticisms and suggestions have been voiced. One pertinent issue is that police officers aren’t mental health professionals. They aren’t equipped to deal with desperate druggies and confused schizophrenics. Well, there’s no arguing with that. Cops don’t step out to do their jobs armed with psychology degrees. 

A knowledgeable few have suggested revisiting what constitutes a criminal offence, which makes sense. There’s a soul-shattering number of men serving long prison terms for minor drug offenses and various other petty crimes. 

Also, the traditional bail program should be reevaluated because arrestees who can’t afford to buy their way out of their troubles end up getting sucked deeper and deeper into the system. This, in itself, stokes the imbalance between rich and poor. Not to mention that our overpopulated prisons are a drain that never ceases to suck.

The need to take a look at our justice system is obvious; yet no one seems to be discussing what to me has been the most shocking factor of all: the lack of intelligence and awareness shown by the officers who have lately become visible in the public arena. 

Folks in blue with badges have bodycams. Presumably they’re aware of this. They strap the things on. They maintain their upkeep. They’re expected to offer them up as evidence-on-demand. Those cameras are with them always. 

Also, surely a cop realizes that every time he interacts with a civilian, most especially an African American, spectators gather. Cameras are held aloft and pointed; and whatever the lenses capture is posted to bear witness on the feeds; and the footage is sold, sometimes given, to news stations to be analyzed again and again by commentators who are gifted in the art of persuasion and provocation.

With cameras so prevalent, why are we seeing these tragic atrocities on our televisions?

Is it possible that, during an officer’s training, no instructor tells recruits to Behave as though the whole world’s watching? Maybe this wisdom is so universal, so evident, that those who train police officers assume it doesn’t need to be taught.  

And yet, a Neanderthug in uniform choked and killed an unarmed man in front of the entire population of the planet. Who gave this officer his power? Who declared him suitable in the first place? That someone who is supposed to represent the best of us unleashed the darkest part of himself with such unwavering persistence, while knowing he had an audience, makes me wonder—was he truly that arrogant, that entitled? Or was he just that stupid? 

All this fury is justified. 

This shameful act is being held up everywhere as an example of what we stand for.

We blush, therefore we are. 

I had no picture to fit the blog, so I chose this sunflower, which planted itself in the middle of David’s tomato cages.

The Symbolic Mask

I don’t like to wear a mask, and I don’t like it when other people wear masks. I want to see faces. Also, masks are inconvenient and uncomfortable.

Yet, as we’re discovering, a mask is so much more than a mask. 

 To some, it symbolizes a loss of freedom. Do we live in a society with laws that can force a person to cover—cover in the same way as the Arab women must cover, which is a tradition that has been regarded by our society as an abhorrence for years? At this point in time, no, there are no such laws, only the pressure of public opinion, which is a considerable pressure indeed; and because of this pressure, it’s not surprising that some take the instruction to cover as an infringement, a cause for rebellion.

As with every push-back opinion, there are nuances. The mask also represents change to people who despise change—and I’m not blaming here, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s change. Also, the mask embodies another truth that we’re smacked in the face with every day until we’re just sick, sick, sick of hearing it—we failed. Failure. Our country, the best country, isn’t the best. The mask is proof that we’ve been brought low by something so tiny that it’s not visible to the eye. This has led to the ceaseless analysis of the lack of preparedness, the denying, the overreacting, and, in contrast, the failure to act. 

More importantly, the mask has magnified our polarization. Those who refuse to mask take this stance because of their dedication to America and its freedoms. (This is America! You can’t tell people what to wear!) Conversely, those who support the mask value life over livelihood, implying that those who don’t support the mask would gladly see everybody die. 

And then there are the compliant mask-folk who speak in the most heartfelt way about protecting others. Wearing a mask when you’re in a public place isn’t that much to ask in view of what would happen if we all went around spitting on each other. To them the mask represents concern for their fellow humans. Typically, these people have fallen in love with their masks. For instance, this morning, on the broad tree-lined streets of Marble Falls, I saw a woman out walking by herself with a mask on. We have had no new cases of the virus since May the twelfth. In my completely baseless, yet not completely clueless, opinion, if she were to forego the mask during her morning constitutional, there’s zero chance that she’d be exposing herself to the virus; nor would she be spreading it to someone else. 

 On the other hand, considering the suspicion that always accompanies fear, I wouldn’t be surprised if that woman out walking in her mask was doing so, not because she was afraid of the virus, but because she was scared that if she didn’t wear it someone driving by would throw rocks at her. To me, what’s most disturbing about all of this is that the panic found in areas where the virus has penetrated has ended up as a horrifying presence in our sleepy little area of the country where the virus is no more significant than an ant bite on a pinky toe. 

 Here, in the grocery store, the workers are wisely taking care of themselves. Of the customers, some wear masks and some don’t. The people who do don’t glare with nasty judgment at the people who don’t because everybody understands that it seems stupid to wear a mask when you feel fine. I know, I know—it can be asymptomatic; but some people aren’t as quick to adjust as others, and our more stubborn ilk believes that if you don’t feel sick, you’re most likely not sick. Mainly, though, the virus simply isn’t here. But by golly when it does come, the masks are going to be ready. 

 Stylistically speaking, the coverings are an illuminating entity. The people who don them make choices, and these choices reveal as much about who they are as their bares face would, possibly even more so. Gas masks, painters’ masks, masks made from socks and bras—it’s fun. I saw one made of sweatbands fastened together with old-fashioned diaper pins. The most hilarious gear I’ve come across so far was a woman wearing a full plastic coverall that was snapped up the front all the way to her chin and tucked beneath a mouth-and-nose mask that hooked behind her ears, with a dive mask over that, and one of those plastic face shields extending down from her head—which of course got caught on the dive mask; and a rain hat perched on top of the whole shebang. And what, through this outfit, was she telling the world about herself? I’m pretty sure her thinking was that when her fellow humans are falling dead all around her, she’s going to be the last one standing. 

Overall, I’d say that the compliant folk are proving to be more adaptable, which is by all accounts a good thing to be. You may not be scared, but chances are your neighbor is. You may think all this is silly, but an empathetic person caters to another’s fears. Also, bluntly put, the choice is quickly morphing into one between complying and becoming a pariah. Honestly, I’ve got the masks but don’t feel the need to wear them at this time. In my world, sense rules the day.   

This is my face cover of choice—lightweight and comfortable. Not sure how much protection it provides for others or for myself.

Drinking in the Time of Corona

Some are private about their drinking. Years ago I mentioned to a friend that I noticed that she didn’t recycle, and her response was that it’s not her neighbors’ business how much she drinks. Huh. It never occurred to me to care. We put our gin, wine, and whiskey bottles right out by the curb. Were our neighbors counting our bottles while they were out walking their dogs? Did they judge? Probably not; because who does that? My friend who didn’t recycle, that’s who. 

About ten years ago I fell into a wine habit. A bottle a night. That’s either three glasses or four, depending on how big your glass, how high the wine level. I’d start at around five and tip the glass for the last time at about nine, so the bottle lasted me all evening. Because we were living in Singapore, and we walked or relied on public transportation, I was so active that I gained no weight from my regular imbibing. During this period, when people asked why I always turned down potatoes and bread, my standard response was, “I prefer to drink my carbs.”

When we returned from Singapore, moved out to Marble Falls, and began running our errands in a car rather than on foot, it was inevitable that my weight would start sneaking upward. I’m not a fanatic about weight, neither a whiner nor an obsessor; but if you come from short round people you get fat if you don’t keep a wise eye on it. So five years into the Marble Falls life, it occurred to me that the prudent thing to do would be to look up the number of calories in a bottle of wine. Oh my! In all honesty, this is about the thirtieth time in my life that I’ve come to realize that what goes into my mouth has something to do with the needle on the scale. A repetitive epiphany. 

So, realizing it was time to let the wine habit go, I stowed my electric corkscrew in the high cabinet; and I put the stylish silver wine rack on a shelf in the garage. Of course, because I’m a rational person and a rational person rationalizes, I came up with all sorts of exceptions and excuses. I would still drink socially—who wants to be the abstemious person in the group? And, as a reward for abstaining for a week, I would allow myself a martini on Saturday nights. Oh glorious Saturdays. The taste of the vodka brought delightful shivers; and I swear I felt each limb and muscle in my body relax as the alcohol traveled through my veins. Inevitably, soon it was two martinis, at which point Saturday became my night to drink. 

Nevertheless, in three months I lost fifteen pounds and was back to my Singapore weight. Felt good. Clothes fit more comfortably. 

And then came The Virus. The constant dissection of it. The miserable blame that came with it.  The numbers and the comparison of numbers. People wearing masks throwing suspicious looks at those who didn’t. Workers not working. Not even able to go to a movie or enjoy a meal in a restaurant. 

And I’ll also point out that during this time of closure, when dental offices, hair care and dog grooming services, and clothing stores were blocked from us, Specs and Twin Liquors remained open. We were stoic when it came to the inconveniences, but if they’d closed the liquor stores there would have been riots. 

Anyway, with doom everywhere, what can you do but drink? 

What used to be a wine habit has turned into a gin habit. What started out as one gin soon became three. 

This is too much drinking; and the needle is once again creeping. Also, having once been owned by wine, why would I now want to be owned by gin? Well, because of The Virus. If society is in ruins, if we’ve lost our money, pleasures, and freedoms, why not indulge?

No. Be strong, Jen. The world falling apart is no excuse for weakness. Self-control is what’s needed. 

So, in the name of discipline, I’ve come up with a new plan—and it’s a good one. A month off and a month on. Of course, the rule about social drinking will stand—during the non-drinking month if we’re asked to someone’s home, most likely for an outdoor event, to share a glass of wine, why then of course I’ll have the wine. To not do so would be rude. Also, during the off month, I’ll go back to my martini Saturday nights. As a reward. 

But on the non-drinking month if I have a bad day, or if things go awry in the world, then I’ll give myself permission to have a drink, because drinking is a good way to handle sad times. Sometimes a person needs a drink. And that’s all there is to it.  

A drink with old friends.