I’m outside in a comfortable seat, and it’s about 78 degrees with a nice little breeze stirring things up. Birdies are at the feeder and bath, and I have a beer to hand in a frosted glass. We don’t have mosquitoes here. It’s a lovely evening.
I just took delivery on a couple air purifiers. I’m not the type to fret about airborne particles, pollen or dust or mites or cooties or mold or any of the other various prospectors from the fungi kingdom, or even bad juju, which is purportedly ether-borne. I’ve been very lucky with my health and don’t suffer from such things. But the odds of getting through the summer here without a smoke event are very remote. That’s something we have now, smoke events, such as last year when we were at 400+ on the index that says you should stay indoors under a wet towel and weep if it gets above 35. I didn’t care for the odor, or the orange daylight that matched the curtains of the Apocalypse, but I did okay. Dave tends toward bronchial issues, though, so I thought we’d get air purifiers for at least a room or two. In the event.
I have yet to get a go-bag together. Yeah, sure, I know about the emergency kit for the big earthquake, which I hope to either survive underneath my piano or die under it, flattened and accompanied by a celestial 88-key chord. But a go-bag, in case of wildfire and a shift of wind, I had not thought about. Also? Supposed to keep my gas tank at least half-full in case I have to get out in a hurry and there’s a traffic jam. I’ve given some thought to what absolutely needs to be saved out of the house. Tater Cat, my external hard drive, Pootie, and…well, Pootie’s best friend Hajerle, whom I promised my sister Margaret I would take care of. There’s probably other stuff, if I put my mind to it.
Getting a gun is not in the plan, even if someone wants to take my stuff. I guess I understand the reasoning, but some deep authentic part of me, which may or may not be reasonable, insists that if I survive a tragic event it will be with the help and cooperation of like-minded friends and strangers, and not if we’re all guarding our castles and putting heads on pikes. I might be naïve here, but questioning myself on this would damage my heart in irreparable ways.
It’s interesting to be this age, in this age. I can look back on my life as though it were sliced into little planes of existence, stacked up against time, so that it is easy to see the progression. It wasn’t long ago I never thought about washing face masks and trying to re-shape the little wires in them. I never thought about spiffing up my basement so there will always be a cooler room to sleep in.
It never occurred to me to quit writing books because nobody will be around to read them soon.
We did have fears, in those earlier life-slices. I remember being afraid of our toaster, because it was well-known that you could die from sticking a knife into it to get your toast out. We were never to run with scissors, or take candy from strangers. But strangers never offered us candy.
Air travel was rather new. We went to the airport at least once just to gawk at the big airplanes. They’d lumber off the runway with a roar, and we’d point at them and go home again. Where we’d watch them pass over the back yard. Seems like it took them a couple seconds. We didn’t think about carbon at all.
We were afraid of dogs. Dogs ran free and sometimes in packs, and a few of them were scary, especially if you were little.
So, toasters. German Shepherds. Something that could “take your eye out.” But nobody had a Kevlar backpack.
Tonight I’m watering the blueberries, trees, and vulnerable beds. Supposed to get up to 104 tomorrow. 109 on Friday. I remember when that didn’t happen.
I really like German Shepherds now. My fears are both stronger and more diffuse. It’s harder to get ahold of them, compared to Death Toasters. I’m sitting in this beautiful breeze with my beautiful beer and beautiful husband and thinking: this, today, will become my new nostalgia, as the Gulf Stream Jacuzzi winds down and subsides into a sloshing ocean of apathetic bath water.
That wasn’t in the picture when I was little. Then, and again now, the future used to be further away.
I was a toddler during the Cuban Missile Crisis. I wasn't precocious enough to know all the details, but I knew we were in deep shit with the Russians, and they might nuke us out of existence. I remember that in my night-time prayers, I used to pray "please don't let the Russians throw bombs at us." (That was of course back when I went to Catholic school, so it was mandatory to believe in god.)
I remember being afraid of bees because I stepped on one once when barefoot. I no longer fear bees, in fact, I let them come up close to me and give me a good look. (I've read that bees actually can recognize individual people!) I don't, however go barefoot outside because of what I might step on.
They never had those outlet covers to keep kids from poking things into them, so my mom instilled the fear of them into me instead. If I poke my finger or something else into them I might die! (I did understand death at a very early age.) To this day, I cringe a little bit when I plug things in and out.
These were such simple and specific fears, in retrospect. What am I afraid of now? Damned near everything, Murr. My fears are no longer simple, and more diffuse than specific. It seems that every day, I hear about something else to fear. It's getting to the point that my fears have to take a number, like in a butcher shop, before I can worry about them. "Let's see… Covid, I can pencil you in for 4pm… Climate Change, you have the entire morning blocked off. Repairs and maintenance around the house… I guess the only time to worry about you guys is 2am…."
Take a number! I like it. Maybe we should just get stoned.
Already on it, babe! A wee bit of alcohol in a glass of water, taken throughout the day takes the edge off. It's not a popular solution for the mainstream, but it works well enough for me, and we're all going to die soon anyway, so WTF.
Take a number works for me too. And some fears which used to be front and centre now have numbers sooooo big that I may not get to them again.
Such a sadness it has become. The Jefferson Airplane song, 'Wooden Ships' always comes to mind. And the story of Stone Soup. And I hope to have enough coffee to give away so I don't have to shoot them.
oooh, I haven't thought about that song for ages.
Beautiful and sad all at the same time. What times these are.
Weird, to be alive at the end.
Having been always a cheerful pessimist, I walk about in continual wonder that, seventy-five years or so after having figured out how to obliterate ourselves, we've been so dilatory about it. But it is sometimes discouraging to think of us just nickle-and-diming ourselves (and most everyone else) into extinction, because we can't bear to live a slightly less comfy life. I suppose if multicellular eukaryotes survive, Mother Nature can take another run at intelligent life one of these eons: maybe something less chimp-like will have better luck.
Slightly less comfy, right, and yet a lot of what we've gotten used to actively works against our happiness.
Yeah. If we were squandering all this to buy lives of joy and deep satisfaction, it would be another matter. If you're going to deal with the devil, at least drive a hard bargain!
Yeah…..what Dale said.
Oh, for the days of duck and cover drills for when the "Big One" hits or polio vaccine on a sugar cube. There are days now that make me want to go to the tavern for breakfast.
I'll save you a seat.
Jono, when I click my ruby slippers and intone "There's no place like home", my childhood years are the years of which I am thinking. Yeah, I know there were problems then, but they seem so much easier to solve than today's problems.
I kind of agree with all of the above, but I have to temper my memories of childhood fears by the fact that I grew up with a Mom & Dad, who even in the face of the Cuban Missile Crisis gave me some sense of security. Back then I thought that at least we could die together in the basement after eating survival rations for several weeks. Those kind of thoughts were a bit more comforting than what we're facing today…
Now, that's saying something in itself.
You put, much more poetically, a thought I’ve been struggling with lately. I’ve nicknamed it “The Ultimate Boomer Whine”: Why does the end of the world have to happen on MY watch?! How very unattractive and idiotic, eh? I can picture Linus on his hilltop in the dark, yelling this out to God, or The Great Pumpkin, or whomever. I’m trying to disarm this notion by exposing it to daylight, but it’s not cooperating. The truth is, it hurts to watch.
It hurts a lot. It's not like me to be overcome by despair, but it's been happening. Not that it much matters how I feel.
I've been feeling it, too, Murr. I used to be "fun Mimi." Not so much anymore. I'm just trying to enjoy however much time is left to us. Spending my money on whatever pleases me, not spending it on shit I won't be around to benefit from, and drinking and listening to jazz, and playing with my parrots. And keeping up the "old girls" in the garage for the time when we need them. Yeah, that sounds dreadful, but it's our lives now. I find it ironic that anti-vaxxers hold up signs saying "it's my body, my choice," but they don't seem to feel that way on other matters of one's own body, like abortion or suicide.
I'm not positive there's a strong correlation between anti-vaxxers and pro-lifers, but the former has definitely co-opted the lexicon of pro-choicers.
Just sent you a note, Murr. Lots to ponder in your essay above. And it certainly struck some bass notes. All best and good luck to us all, pal.
Back at you, baby.
You can do it. You can survive. I have become so dependent on the electricity. If that should fail, i will go to the creek and bring cloths to use until this heat event is over.
I am sorry to hear that you are having to do this again.
If we're lucky there will still be water in the creek. There isn't here in Southern Oregon
[sob]
When I was young, our toaster was a long handled fork with bread stuck on the bent down prongs and the whole thing held over the open fire in the kitchen stove. Then we got a wire contraption that sat on the gas flames of the hob on the newer stove and we put the bread on top and peered at it from below to see when it was browned enough to flip the slice over with our fingers. most of the time toast didn't seem worth the effort so we ate bread instead. back then I never, ever worried about the future and these days, when I know better, I still try to not worry about things that might happen that I can do nothing about.
Bonus points to River for using "hob" in a sentence!
Last sentence good coping mechanism. I'm gonna try it.
My friend from college, who is a bird addict, had a couple of parakeets that were allowed to fly around the house. They liked to land on the toaster and peck at the heating elements, or maybe they were searching bread crumbs. To dissuade them,she glued outward-facing thumbtacks all over the outside of the toaster. Rather nightmarish to look at or brush up against, but it worked to keep the birds off.
I simply don't know what to make of all that. I can visualize it and then everything goes blank.
Dude, just cage the birds while you're making toast. It won't faze them in the least. Budgies get over it. (African Greys, however, will passive-aggressively poop in odd spots that you then step into. Then they will laugh.)
Thinks about her childhood in the 40s and 50s and weeps inconsolably at how we've treated the Earth.
Yeah.
When my wife is not working on the book she’s writing, she is watching news or commentary, which seems to me like counting the rivets on the boiler of the locomotive that’s bearing down on us where we are tied to the tracks. I’ve annoyed her with that metaphor enough times so that now when I walk into the living room and say “How many rivets?” she doesn’t have to ask what I mean. As for myself, I have only enough hope to get out of bed in the morning, but that may be just a habit.
Everyone loves a good metaphor. Well, I do anyway. How about "trying to come up with the combination for the safe that's falling on us?" Not nearly as good, but I haven't had my coffee yet.
Jeremy, I can relate. Paul is a news junkie. Sometimes he leaves the radio on and goes into another room, so I turn it off. He knows it depresses the hell out of me, but he seems unfazed by it all. I could do without any radio news at all (fortunately, we don't have a TV connection — just streaming service.) We get the paper (mainly because we have parrots. See parrot poop reference above.) which I prefer, as I can self-censor. I can't do that with stuff I HEAR.
All wonderful comments….thanks so much. I read and see so much about the fires around us here in California that in my mind it seems as if it's just a matter of time before they sweep me and my house and my cats away. It's hell on home maintenance plans.
I have to admit I've been wondering what is left unburnt in California.
Earlier this month, there was a news report here in the UK about a concern that mixing insecticide products had a much greater deleterious effect on bees than would be expected from the the killing power of the individual products. I was only just alive in 1962 but I know what Rachel Carson said back then. Humans, eh? Not so good at history, it turns out.
If the definition of insanity is doing the same things over and over and expecting different results, then humans are definitively insane.
Good old RC! I remember seeing power lines absolutely encrusted with birds.
Also: “It is difficult to get a man to understand something, when his salary depends upon his not understanding it!”
That's a good one. Source?