Living in a Bubble

Although many things have changed since I retired from academia, one aspect of our lives has remained the same. Most of my working life was spent surrounded by political progressives, both in the workplace and in the neighborhood where we lived. Now we are still living in a "liberal" bubble where most of our fellow Bisbeeans share our outrageously radical views like gun registration is a good idea, people who cross the international border looking for work should not have their children taken from them, and that a president who is beholden to Moscow is not a good thing. These modest beliefs are not widely shared outside the Bisbee city limits, though.

A drive to nearby Sierra Vista will reveal clusters of Trump campaign signs and compounds of rusting RVs tucked away in the desert defiantly waving their "Don't Tread On Me" and MAGA flags. There is more than a little menace in these displays. After all, one must ask about the motivation of some people in shouting to the world their anger and defiance. Persuasion? Hardly.

Now that the dust has settled over the election fight, I find myself wondering about the safety of our bubble. There are more than a few people in Arizona whose sense of outrage finds expression in chest-thumping firearms display. A Hispanic female reporter for Telemundo who was broadcasting an election night vote count in Phoenix was surrounded by a group of gun bearing goons who wore no covid masks as they shouted insults at her. Rumors of a violent militia movement in Pinetop have also reached our ears. Even the campground host at our Parker Canyon Lake retreat opined that we would soon be under the rule of "President Harrison" because Joe Biden will resign in six months. (I called bullshit on that one; the host was unarmed at the time of this pronouncement.)

But this insular community we have joined can also be dangerous. Living in a bubble can definitely contribute to cultural myopia, a lack of empathy for anyone who feels differently than those we surround ourselves with on a daily basis. (Witness my reaction to the campground host.) All the same, how someone can clutch an assault rifle and shout Second Amendment slogans while simultaneously opposing abortion because it is "murder" is difficult to fathom. (As John Prine once said, "Now Jesus don't like killin' no matter what the reason's for.") However, if we are ever to heal this nation while moving forward from the Orange years, we must try to listen, and understand, the other side. For most Americans, the real test will be around the Thanksgiving table this year. Hopefully, love will prevail.

Groundhog Day

Over a year ago when I first retired I imagined the possibility that all the coming days would seem the same and, as if to manifest that fever dream, the pandemic restrictions arrived this spring to make sure every new day in Bisbee would be like yesterday, weather permitting. A rather lukewarm response to the spreading sickness on the state and local level in February was followed with a more heated lukewarm response in March featuring the closing of businesses and a suggestion that we all stay at home for the entire month of April, limiting trips outside the home to get groceries or exercise.. From what I have observed I would estimate about two thirds of my fellow Bisbeeites have followed this suggestion, with a visible one third laughing at the restrictions and carrying on as if there were no danger at all.

I find myself doing very little to vary my routine: walking miles every morning, eating a late home made lunch, throwing darts with a steadily increasing accuracy,and filling my evenings by binge watching English murder mysteries on Amazon Prime. This repetition is not particularly onerous, although one does miss eating out in restaurants, bending the elbow in the local pub, and gathering with friends. The biggest loss for me personally is the inability to visit the Copper Queen Library and replenishing the limited supply of reading material I have on hand. In my desperation to find some sort of literary escape I actually submitted myself to finishing Wallace Stegner’s Angle of Repose, a boring 569 page slog whose ultimate conclusion seems to be the surprising revelation that most marriages require compromises. (Who knew?) My next unread tome is Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens, and while it, too, exceeds 500 pages (my edition is 831, not counting the preface) I believe I will find more sympathetic characters within its covers than Stegner’s irritating roster of complaining, snobby prigs. I have heard the library will allow curbside pickup in another week, but since their collection of Dickens is pretty limited, and inter-library loan services are still closed, I will either have to purchase volumes online or simply wait if I want to continue my acquaintance with one of the greatest writers of the English language.

One thing that varies a routine existence of repetition are the terrifying forays to the local Safeway where, jostling among the masked and the unmasked, shoppers take their lives in their hands just to see if toilet paper has returned to the shelves. I used to enjoy grocery shopping, lingering in the aisles as I debated the costs between generic and name brands and impulse purchasing many delicacies that we could easily do without. Now my hands sweat inside the gloves I wear while my eyeglasses fog from the desperate breaths I gulp while trying to avoid other shoppers. It is an ordeal, not a pleasure.

I don’t know if society will ever return to “normal.” If this is the “normal” I should expect for the remaining years of my life I will need more than Charles Dickens to help me through.

A Cautionary Tale on Super Tuesday

“When Fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross” This quote has been attributed to Sinclair Lewis, but no one knows for sure. The only sure thing is that the quote has become all too accurate.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

After a lengthy hiatus from this blog it is high time I returned to the practice of sending out digital dispatches to the void. Much has happened since I last took keyboard in hand including a holiday vacation to New York City and Washington D.C. I included the latter town in our Christmas plans because I wanted Jayne and Benjamin to see the place, and I was hoping to meet with the Orange Idiot to encourage his resignation. Unfortunately he heard I was coming and left to hide at Mar-A-Lago the day before we arrived.

But I have not reappeared to rehash what was a wonderful journey that also resulted in a beautiful Ganesh head tattoo on my right forearm. No, I am here for a more important reason: to complain about the aggressive fauna of Southern Arizona.

The citizens of Bisbee enjoy trash service twice a week, and the backup beeping of the garbage truck is always a comforting sound issuing from the end of our driveway on Monday mornings. Generally speaking, I try to bag up our rubbish on Sunday night and, in an attempt to avoid attacks by domestic dogs or rampaging coatimundis, I often place the bag in the back of my car to sit overnight. I followed this regimen earlier this week, but disaster struck anyway.

Sleep has become difficult for me in my advanced years and some mornings, like last Monday, I get up far too early. In this case it was shortly after 4:00 am when I gave up the effort of attempting to fall back into the welcoming arms of Morpheus. I listed to the radio and had my breakfast while waiting for the dawn to come which would allow me to start on my morning walk up to the Mule Pass Divide. It was still dark at 6:00 am, although the eastern horizon had started to become visible and I decided it was safe to retrieve the trash bag from the car and place it at the end of the driveway. Then, after another cup of coffee and getting dressed for the walk, I left the front door. I could not believe my eyes. There, at the end of the driveway, were two very large javelinas rooting through my trash like Republicans at a fundraising dinner. My temper got the better of my discretion as I ran towards them yelling “Get out of here you mangy pigs!” They did not challenge me but took off up the mountainside like goats, leaving me to clean up their mess.

I make this complaint because just the previous week we entertained our out of town friends, Bill and Barb Wood, by taking them on several walks around town. Bill, a talented photographer, snapped this photograph of a mural just a few blocks from our house. At the time we had a chuckle, but I little realized this was nothing less than a prophecy in paint!