Obsessions

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April 10, 2026- As I sit at the computer, reading some articles and writing my own, I watch one or two squirrels traversing the neighbour’s roof and nearby trees, living the full life of exercise, play and acorn gathering that make up the life of a tree squirrel. I also listen for my granddaughter, napping downstairs in her bassinet. She will call out or coo, when she wakes up, knowing that I will shortly come downstairs and tend to her needs.

In neither the rodent, nor the innocent child, is there an excessive focus on anything other than surviving and thriving. Once a person reaches the age of reason, however, unmet needs can turn into obsessions, almost exclusive foci on one or two persons or concepts, even to the extent of neglecting one’s daily duties or responsibilities.

A friend has written an article about “derangement syndrome”. I have yet to read the piece, but I can say, ahead of the game, that such terms indicate obsession, not only by the person who hates, but also by the one who is receiving the vitriol-if that person encourages the attention. It is well-understood, by child psychologists and parents, that a neglected child, one deprived of attention over an extended period, will construct his or her own universe, in which he or she is the center.

We all do this, to a modest extent, as no parent, however dedicated and loving, can shower attention on a child 24/7. For the well-adjusted person, however, there are limits to self-absorption: A spouse, a friend, a sibling, a child or an organization will have needs that the individual, of own volition, will choose to help meet.

For the deprived individual, however, everything in the constructed universe becomes transactional, with him or her as the end recipient. The longer and stronger the deprivation, the deeper the delusion, the louder the demands for attention, and the more creative the transactions. This has been borne out, throughout history, across nations and cultures.

Now, it’s time to tend to my granddaughter.

Atonement

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April 5, 2026- It was a blustery, snowy night, in February, 1978. Out of money, out of gas for my Ford LTD, I walked into the Sheriff’s Office, in Skowhegan, and asked the deputy to lock me in a cell for the night. I had broken no human laws, but still felt that a night in jail was what I deserved. He obliged-no charges, no fines, just a hard bunk, an old pillow and a blanket.

I had gone up to the Winter Carnival, in Quebec, with three young ladies along. They found their own accommodations, and I, my own. We met up on Sunday morning, after what had been a fairly pleasant 1 1/2 days. The ride back, through an increasingly heavy snow, was sent from Down Below. By the time we got to Skowhegan, in western Maine, the car was nearly out of gas, we were all just about out of money and the women were out of patience with me. They left, and were able to hitch a ride, or two, back to Orono, and their university dorms.

I chose to wait until morning, thus the jail cell. It’s the only time I have ever been the guest of a county sheriff, or of any law enforcement authority. At 7 a.m., the sheriff himself unlocked the cell and wished me well. I got the remaining food out of the cooler in the car, locked it again and hitched my own ride back to Bangor. I called my cousin in Orono and got him to take me tot he bank, then to Skowhegan, where I then gassed up the car and caravaned with him back to Bangor. (As it happened, Monday was bright and sunny, and I had been expected at work. A call from the pay phone outside the sheriff’s office cleared that up.)

I thought, long and hard, that night, about the man I’d become: Unmoored, in a no-win job situation, and with little to show for my twenty-seven years. I shortly afterward entered a Master’s program, at the University of Maine. I would not take more than three courses, in the time I had left, but it was a jump forward and I showed myself that there was hope for the future. In June, 1980, my Master’s program re-started, at Northern Arizona University, and I made good.

A footnote: Cleaning out my LTD, on Monday afternoon after the debacle, I found the wallet of one of the ladies, and drove it up to her dorm in Orono. She wasn’t in, which was just as well, so I left it with her roommate, who had heard all the grisly details and was understandably frosty. I only hope the lives of those three women have gone much better, since that night.

Re-assessing and renaming

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March 19,2026- I propose, as some others already have, renaming the commemorative, unofficial holiday known as Cesar Chaves Day, National Farmworkers Day. Juneteenth is, rightfully, a Federal holiday; so should there be a day to honour all farmworkers. How many of us chowhounds would willingly pick potatoes and carrots all day long? How many would work the fields picking melons and strawberries? Even emptying trees of citrus fruit, apple, peaches and pears is backbreaking work!

A social justice movement is far more than the one or two who are its public face. I prefer to call the January holiday that has been focused on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Civil Rights Day. As much admiration and respect as I have for Dr. King, he himself would have been the first to say he was not a perfect individual. He had his lusts and pitfalls, though he has never been accused of such atrocities as those or which his contemporary, Cesar Chavez, has been posthumously charged.

The revelations documented in the New York Times illustrate the folly of adulation. Small children idolize their parents and grandparents. As they get older, they learn of their elders’ imperfections. Hopefully, they continue to love those elders, but they will know that they are not amidst living saints.Along those lines, we were wise, as a nation, to recast George Washington’s Birthday as Presidents Day- honouring at least those whose terms in office added luster to the nation’s history and offering a fair assessment of those whose terms did not.

Cesar Chavez apparently gave in to the worst elements of the culture in which he was raised, compounded by the bright lights and hero’s welcomes he received. It will be a step forward, for any future leaders, to transcend the impulse of feeling that there are lesser human beings, who owe them favours for what they have achieved.

There are no lesser human beings.

Warrior

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March 11, 2026- “Nobody’s Girl”, by Virginia Roberts Giuffre is a brutal read; arguably the Auschwitz-Birkenau of books. I am little more than halfway through the late author’s account of her life before, during and after her association with Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell. Her life up until meeting her husband, Robbie, was a classic case of “assumed deserving of deprivation” combined with identification with aggressors. Epstein heard her tale of abuse by a family member and family friend, and incorporated his own misogynist credo into several years of what amounted to sexual slavery.

“Jenna”, as she called herself, was the sort of girl that, even in my own awkward episodes of standing up for abused children and teens, would have been safe in my care. I might have coddled her and called her “beautiful”, to excess., but I would not have cared who came after her. There would have been no harm, and every power figure who tried to deliver her back to her abuser(s) would have been loudly and publicly called out. That happened once or twice in my career, and otherwise good friends had to be put on notice that the child came first.

Jenna ended up being her own warrior. Her husband helped some, but only she knew the depths of what had been done to her, since the age of seven. She had to withstand a torrent of gaslighting, on which those in positions of power and those who are themselves in denial tend to fall back, especially when a long and fairly successful gig is up. Virginia Roberts Giuffre ended up committing suicide, or so we are told. I am not finished reading the book yet, so I will defer judgement as to whether the case is actually as it has been constructed by those in authority.

It just is a bit too much of a cookie cutter ending, to the case of a person who had finally found a fulfilling life in a loving family of her own choosing.


Fifteen Years

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March 5, 2026- It was a mild, crisp Saturday morning, when I got the call that I had been expecting, since having woken to a heavy presence in the bedroom that Penny and I had shared for nearly twenty-nine years. I was told that I didn’t have long to get to the Hospice, if I wanted to “exercise the option” of being with her when she passed. I had not taken the spare room that the Hospice provided to those who were expecting a loved one’s imminent passing. because we lived thirty minutes away and a gentleman from Nashville was present, waiting for his mother’s demise.-

This was a case of trusting the Universe to arrange everything nicely. As it happened, the entrance ramp that would have gotten Aram and me there on time, was blocked. The detour added an extra ten minutes to our drive and we arrived, on a still morning, to be greeted by a slow spiral of leaves and dust, swirling near the door. Three minutes had gone by since Penny’s departure, so quiet that the nurse, who had checked her ten minutes earlier, was taken aback. Still warm to the touch, eyes still open, I know that my beloved would have preferred to wait, but it was not to be.

My task, in the years that have gone by, has been to make a concerted effort to live a far better life. It took a few more years, after that day, to vanquish my demons and accomplish most of what we had planned to do together. Here I sit in a comfortable open office, in our family’s home, looking at our infant granddaughter, via a monitor. She is asleep in her crib, with plenty of room, on a soft but firm pad. Helping to raise her will be my lasting gift to the wife who sacrificed everything to help me turn my life around.

It’s been a long process, but I really think I’m there, at long last.

Centrifuge

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March 2, 2026- Humanity seems like it is in a vessel that is spinning and separating people according to various qualities or elements. Those who took chemistry or physics in high school or college know full well that I am referring to a centrifuge. They can imagine, correctly, that the feeling is uncomfortable at best and shattering at worst.

Neoliberals argue that this “us against them” process is simply the way of the world- “just the way it is”, as the President of the United States said yesterday. Their whole premise is that the other side started it, and besides, the other side is “seeking to divide us against each other”-a centrifuge operating inside a centrifuge.

Depending on the historical record cited, this is indeed how it’s largely been for the past 6,000-10,000 years. It has been a slugfest, fueled by testosterone, territorialism and a scarcity mentality (zero sum game). “If you have power, I don’t”, however, no longer works well in a world that is more connected than that of Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Chingiz Khan or Napoleon Bonaparte. Hitler, cited by the ignorant who look wistfully at a past they barely comprehend, was in fact a poster child for the limits imposed by impulsivity coupled with simplistic blame-casting. His centrifuge tossed virtually everyone to the edges, leaving a sour cream of faux perfection to try and hold his fading Reich together.

The substrate of money plays a heavy role in the present exercise. Notice how those taking action against some countries, but not against others, seem to be acting mostly against those whose countries are rich in resources, and therefore a potential source of ever more revenue.

The centrifuge needs to be turned off. We are in a world that needs justice, far more than it needs to fuel ambition.

Head Held High

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March 1, 2026- Hana has developed enough upper body strength to hold her head up, while prone, for several minutes. It will not be long before she can also scoot herself forward, without help. Crawling will come after that. She is able to track the movement of her caregiver and will respond to her name, often by raising her little hand. On top of that, she has started singing little cooed tunes that are in her head.

The biggest contribution I want to make to her life is to ensure that she holds her head high, regardless of circumstances. I am already telling her this, knowing that it will take some time for much of what I say, to register. Still, a lot of what is said to pre-lingual children can register and be used by them later in life. She certainly seems to be storing a lot of information already.

It is my belief that much of the trauma that children experience can be mitigated by a solid first six months following birth. During the newborn phase, many physical and communication skills are initiated. How confident a child becomes, depends on the balance between being comforted in actual times of distress and over-protection, when the child can calm self if given a few minutes to think and reflect, knowing that a loving presence is near, should it all be too much to process.

Hana is getting there, because one or more of us are paying close enough attention to know when she has hit a major bump in the road or just needs a bit of breathing room.

How Hard Is It?

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February 24,2026- Ten random questions come to mind, on this quiet day.

How hard is it, to see a girl or woman as a full human being, with valid dreams and aspirations that are worthy of support?

How hard is it, to not project one’s own insecurities or perceived inadequacies on another person-as a means of avoiding personal responsibility?

How hard is it to recognize that a person of another shade of brown is not an inherent threat to life and limb?

How hard is it to see that a person’s being from another country is not a “Go Straight to Jail” card?

How hard is it to not put an infant, or small child, in harm’s way, in the name of policy?

How hard is it to read the United States Constitution and abide by it?

How hard is it to listen to another person’s point of view, and not take it as a personal attack?

How hard is it to remember the person you once were and go back to the best of those basics?

How hard is it to place monetary gain well behind following the Ten Commandments/ Golden Rule?

How hard is it to have spiritual gifts and not use them as a means to an emotional or remunerative end?

A Better Fit

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February 23, 2026– While I was going through my twelve exercises, on the machines at Planet Fitness, this evening, a young woman nearby was benching 225 pounds. I passed by, on my way to the massage lounge, while she was resting, and offered a glance of encouragement. She certainly was performing a feat that I am unlikely to even remotely approach. She is doing something right for herself, and those in her circle who are encouraging such achievements deserve kudos as well.

This is the sort of elevative wraparound I want to build for Hana. The “Mighty Girl”ethos, not taking away from a similar network for boys, but making personal empowerment a universal child rearing model. This is not a zero-sum game, and those who insist it is are themselves only coming from a position of weakness-regardless of their personal trappings of wealth and power.

I have read a fair amount, recently, about the debilitative effects of patriarchy. It is not only the rich and powerful who operate under this system, as any young woman in a tradition-laden society, who has to marry the man who her father has arranged for her, finds, often to her sorrow. There are more subtle ways the patriarchy knocks the props out from under a woman or girl-linguistically, vocationally, or in terms of expectations. Perhaps the most insidious is the use of women who are either defeated or are somehow in league with those men who are maintaining the patriarchal system. There are several prominent examples of this phenomenon in our present society.

Hana will face many more choices, as she gets older. My main focus will be on helping her sift out the limiting agents of the patriarchy (including those who come on as glamourous or empowering, but are really old vinegar in new bottles). Her parents and I will be her sounding boards, and biggest cheer squad-and God help the person or persons who try to derail her.

Ambition

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February 5, 2026- Hana makes no bones about it: She wants to stand up, and so with my help, she does, in sets of twenty. She wants to climb up on our shoulders, while being held, and so whoever has the honour will support her doing that. She likes to try and scoot or crawl, twice a day, on a soft nylon pad, and will work very hard at it, before getting frustrated. 7.75 weeks isn’t quite enough time, but she isn’t checking the calendar. Our girl is already setting an agenda for herself.

Hana comes by this honestly. Her paternal grandmother earned three Master’s Degrees, despite being physically disabled. One of her paternal great-great grandfathers was a master of podiatry and invented the Fellman boot, which was distributed to all ship-bound sailors of the U.S. Navy, during World War II. Her maternal grandfather gets up at 4 a.m. and works his farm until nearly dusk. Her parents have agendas for each day, and are not happy unless they accomplish at least 80% of those game plans.

So, we played the stand up game and I counted forty stand ups, while I was holding her and about twenty more, later in the day, while her Daddy was up for it. Mommy got her to start pushing forward with her feet a couple of times, and she realizes that holding her head up is key to successful ambulation. I look forward to helping my granddaughter set her own pace. She is not going to lay around and do nothing.