For any who want more, complete list of all posts by month since 2011
  • Zan, Zendegi, Azadi (Women, Life, Freedom)

    Zan, Zendegi, Azadi (Women, Life, Freedom)


    A 22 year old woman named Mahsa Amini died on September 16th. in a hospital in Tehran, Iran while in the custody of the Guidance Patrol a/k/a the morality police who arrested her three days before for a violation involving “bad hijab,” the headscarf required by law for Iranian women. Amini was on holiday visiting relatives with her brother when she was arrested and, according to eyewitnesses, severely beaten. Police took her to a hospital where she was reported to be in a coma before her death.

    The official statement from the police was that she died of a heart attack as a result of an underlying condition (remember George Floyd?), but her family said she had been in good health prior to the incident. They also said her head and body were covered in bruises, according to an article in The Guardian by Kamin Mohamaddi on October 8th.

    Regardless, the death of Mahsa Amini has ignited a firestorm of protests by primarily women and children against not only the hijab law but also the ongoing repression of women’s rights under a hardline clerical regime. The slogan Zan, Zendegi, Azadi which translates to “Women, Life, and Freedom” has become the rallying cry for women’s rights that has now bubbled over to include other economic and social justice issues plaguing Iran. The Indian EXPRESS Journalism of Courage posted this AP photo with an explanation of the slogan on October 15th. The woman’s image on the banner is Mahsa Amini.

    The connection between women (Zan), life (Zendegi), and freedom (Azadi) is not coincidental. Women are the creators of life and life itself cannot be free unless women are. (AP)

    I hesitate to write about people, places, or events that have the potential to (1) display my ignorance of the world outside my life with Pretty or (2) unintentionally do more harm than good to the universe or (3) some combination. But the story of an Iranian Kurdish woman named Mahsa Imini is one I can’t ignore because it tears at all my senses; I feel for her family and for the thousands of women, men, girls and boys who today protest her death, who ask for a better country – who are dying in the streets by the beatings and bullets aimed to stop the uprising.

    The BBC News says Iranian Human Rights Activists estimated this week that 222 people including at least 23 children have been killed by Iranian security forces in the uprisings. From the youngest identified as a 12 year old schoolboy to the oldest known death, a 62 year old woman, tracking the identities of the victims is made more difficult due to the closing of internet access by the Iranian government.

    With the Dobbs decision by the Supremes this summer which takes away a woman’s right in the USA to control her own body’s health, I see parallels in the struggles for the rights of women in Iran. Author Kamin Mohamaddi’s article in The Guardian on October 8th. makes the argument that what is happening today in Iran is really the frontlines for feminism in the 21st century:

    “There is a power and energy to these protests. The sight of young girls with flowing locks taking down pictures of the two elderly ayatollahs Khomeini and Khamenei, the current supreme leader, that brings tears to my eyes and makes even my cynical heart burn with hope. It is as if the Furies have been unleashed in Iran and these extraordinarily brave young women, who are prepared to walk into bullets for the sake of the right to choose how to live, have lost all the fear that has kept previous generations repressed.

    I say cynical heart because, as a member of Iran’s huge diaspora, as a proud British-Iranian, I have spent a large part of my adult and working life trying to introduce my countries to each other, and it has seemed to no avail…

    It seems that the death of Mahsa Jhina Amini has not captured the world’s imagination in the same way as the death of George Floyd did, and the subsequent global protests in solidarity with the Iranian uprising have had few column inches, in spite of mobilising some 500,000 people around the world in one day alone (1 October).

    But now, as I watch the unity in Iran and the cry of this generation which carries within it the stifled cries of all the generations gone before, for the first time in many years I am allowing myself to dream that one day I too can enter Iran without fear gripping my heart and accompanying every step I take there…

    I am quietly resurrecting the long-buried wish to one day walk down Vali Asr Boulevard in Tehran (the longest street in the Middle East) with my hair loose under the Iranian sun and to lean in to kiss my man without fear of being arrested or shouted at or slapped on the street, or taken to be beaten to death in the back of a morality police van. This is a fragile hope that I keep tucked in my back pocket.

    Meanwhile, I hope that the world wakes up to understand that what is happening in Iran is the frontline of feminism right now: the simple expression of desire for equality, for dignity, for life without fear. And as such, it touches us all. Say it with me: Woman Life Freedom.”

    ******************

    Women Life Freedom. Say it with me, and stay tuned.

  • we must never come to this store again

    we must never come to this store again


    Once upon a time somewhere along the supply chain for my bupropion med which I have taken for years to treat free-floating anxiety (that turned into specific anxiety during the Agent Orange previous administration in the USA), well, this med was exchanged for a kind of wellbutrin commonly prescribed to assist tobacco addicts in their war against nicotine. Fun fact: I have never used tobacco in any form with the exception of a few puffs of marijuana here and there. More there than here actually plus I rarely inhaled.

    Last week when Pretty dropped by the pharmacy to pick up a couple of meds for me, the pharmacist in charge said she couldn’t release one of them until she spoke with me via the phone. This of course irritated Pretty who had vowed several times to never darken the door of this particular establishment because of obstacles to what should be a simple action. I prepaid online and was notified the meds were ready for pickup so I assured Pretty when she got out of the grannymobile this would be quick, simple, fast, easy. Said with a smile and thumbs up gesture.

    Not so fast, my friend. Pretty returned to our car without the meds. Her facial expression when she opened the driver’s side door told me who sat between our two granddaughters that were in their car seats in the middle row of seats that Pretty was not happy. She proceeded to let us all know just how unhappy she was with the pharmacy; this was absolutely the last time she would be trying to deal with my meds. Why couldn’t I answer my cell phone when the pharmacist called me just a few minutes before? Because my cell phone was on the floorboard of the passenger side of the front seats and I was sitting in the second row between our two granddaughters to make sure they weren’t kidnapped while she went to the store for me. Not good enough. Pretty continued her rage, rage against the dying of the light or the ridiculous rules of the pharmacy. Take your pick.

    At this point our recently turned three year old Ella joined in Pretty’s harangue to say in her most authoritative voice, “Teresa, we must never come to this store again. I am never getting anything in there. Let’s leave now and go to the playground.”

    Pretty and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. LOL, as the current saying goes. Pretty was Nana to Ella in the everyday vicissitudes of life, but lately when she really wanted to have an impact on the conversation, Ella addressed her as Teresa – which was fine with us since that was her name.

    What did we do then? What could we do? Pretty drove out of the parking lot and took us to the playground. It was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and the perfect weather continued for Ella’s birthday party this past weekend.

    Lost in thought, overwhelmed by Birthday Party Number Three

    (Thankfully pharmacy incident two days before forgotten)

    Pony rides, hay ride, balloons –

    everyone was here to celebrate with me

    Wow!

    Turning Three is HUGE – thank goodness for friends!

    Nana holding baby sister Molly –

    Gigi points to another birthday in January

    I have no words to express the happiness these little girls have brought to Pretty and me these last three years. The old adage time flies when you’re having fun must have been spoken first by a grandmother who suddenly realized her grandchild was three years old having a party with her friends and family, having conversations on her own, occasionally eating a Cheeto which her mother had thoughtfully provided for everyone since it was Ella’s favorite food group.

    Bless these precious girls, bless all the little children of the world, bless the parents who love and care for them, bless everyone in their lives who offer encouragement and hope for their future happiness.

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

    *************

    P.S. I did call the pharmacist who asked me how my anxiety was doing these days since I’d been taking the wrong meds for the past six months. My anxiety is in direct proportion to my worry about my country’s mid-term elections in November, the state of our democracy, the war in Ukraine and a recurrence of Covid. Other than that, I have none. I still don’t smoke, I added. I picked up my meds the next day.

  • yesterday and today juxtaposed

    yesterday and today juxtaposed


    One of my favorite quotes as a septuagenarian is “we must have old memories and young hopes.” Catchy, right? Sigh.

    I have a revision. Check it out: we must have new memories and reclaim old hopes.

    Yesterday’s new memories with Pretty and our granddaughters

    at a favorite playground

    Today’s old hopes reclaimed on signs

    in our front yard

    I should have saved my signs from 50 years ago. All women – including our granddaughters – must have the right to control their own bodies. Period. End of discussion.

    Make your plan to VOTE on November 08th.

    ***********

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • Rooted and Winged – poems by Luanne Castle

    Rooted and Winged – poems by Luanne Castle


    Unbelievably Pretty and I didn’t lose power during the winds and rain of Hurricane Ian as it passed through our neighborhood two days ago. I held my breath and feared the worst: I wouldn’t be able to finish the Sidney Poitier documentary on Apple TV+ or watch A Raisin in the Sun afterwards. I needn’t have fretted about the telly, though.

    During a rain recess I walked to the mailbox and was pleasantly surprised to find a copy of Rooted and Winged, poems by Luanne Castle, stuck among the host of political asks for financial support which are routine with the mid-term elections looming. Luanne is a blogging friend who shares my interest in personal history mixed with current cats, a love of family, a truth seeker and teller. Hooray, I thought to myself as I put the book down on my chair and returned to Sidney on the still functioning Apple TV+. Regardless of wind and rain, I had a book to read by candlelight. No need for candlelight – my lamp bulbs performed their duties without interruption.

    As the title suggests, this latest collection of poems by award winning poet Luanne Castle vividly portrays her recollections of the people and places that grounded her for life as well as the later forces which led her to observe nature with more than casual acquaintance, confront change in a world spinning out of control, and ultimately gave her wings to the voice she now uses to simultaneously sound alarm while offering comfort.

    Here are excerpts from two poems I found unforgettable.

    Why We Wait for Rain

    We wait for hours watching the dark unfurling

    toward us, unsure

    if it will land here at all

    whether it carries thunderstorm or haboob

    It smells like rain

    bittersweet cocktail of sandstone & blossoms

    still damp and quickening in the air

    over ten thousand years…

    And then this wonderful fantasy When I’m in Charge

    Someday you will realize it was me

    and know what you’ve lost.

    When the cancer cure is announced,

    I will be the anonymous healer.

    I will defeat A.I. before it takes over

    our world, outwit the hackers,

    the scammers and spammers…

    We’re all safe in the future because

    of what I’ve done, outlawing grief

    and its wily predecessor love.

    This book as well as her earlier work is available through Amazon and Luanne’s https://www.luannecastle.com/bookstore.

    Even if you believe you’ve never liked poetry, I encourage you to have a go at this collection. I guarantee you’ll surprise yourself by the emotions the images evoke even as your mind takes flight.

    ***********

    Stay safe, stay sane, and please stay tuned.

  • Eloise Robinson Powell was a woman of substance

    Eloise Robinson Powell was a woman of substance


    “Eloise Powell was a very special person, she was successful in every aspect of life, and she was a Godly woman who loved her family with every ounce of her being.”  ——– from obituary September 06, 2022

    My daddy Glenn Morris’s favorite cousin was Eloise Robinson Powell who was born March 21, 1924 six months before his birth on October 6th. of the same year. Daddy’s mother Betha Day Robinson and Eloise’s father William T. – better known to us as Bud – were sister and brother; Daddy’s father George Morris and Eloise’s mother Hattie Jane were brother and sister. In rural southeast Walker County, Texas the children of such mixed families in the Roaring 20s were known as “double first” cousins.

    Although their parents came from large families, (George and Hattie were two of ten children, Betha and Bud two of seven) Eloise was an only child while Glenn had one older brother and sister. Glenn spent much of his summers growing up with Eloise at their grandmother’s home in the tiny community of Crabbs Prairie “out in the country” near Huntsville which was fewer than 30 miles from his house in the small town of Richards in neighboring Grimes County. The friendship they formed in those early years as double first cousins would last throughout their lifetimes, spilling over into the next generation when Eloise’s son Bill and I played outside Uncle Bud’s store in Crabbs Prairie as kids in the 1950s.

    Eloise remained in Huntsville after her marriage to Chester Powell, had a successful career for thirty years as the administrative secretary to three different presidents of Sam Houston State University and upon her retirement received the honor of being named an SHSU Distinguished Alumni, the highest recognition a graduate of the school receives. My dad took me to visit Eloise in her office at Sam Houston several times when he was working on his master’s degree in education at the college. I’m sure she was surprised when Daddy and his little daughter popped by without warning in the President’s office to say hello. (Think no cell phones.) I remember how sweetly she smiled, though, how genuinely happy they were to see each other.

    The vicissitudes of life took Bill and me away from our Crabbs Prairie/Richards roots which meant that we didn’t stay as close as Glenn and Eloise had been; yet, our paths crossed again when I had an unexpected four-year Texas sabbatical from 2010 – 2014. Bill and his wife Donna had moved back to Crabbs Prairie and were living in a lovely home next to the modern convenience store version of Uncle Bud’s store. Pretty and I lived in Montgomery, a growing small town 18 miles south of Richards. Donna and Bill were as gracious to us when we popped in on them as Eloise was to my dad and me. Think cell phones, but no phone numbers.

    One of the greatest gifts of my Texas sabbatical after forty years of living a thousand miles away in South Carolina was my reconnection to Eloise and our family. I visited with her in her Huntsville home several times where we shared memories, stories, looked at pictures, birth certificates, marriages licenses, death certificates. We talked, we laughed, we shed tears – but mostly we shared a love of family history which Eloise had preserved in detail worthy of the personal historian she was.

    She also guided me on field trips around the area. One of our mutual cousins on the Morris side of the family, Fay, lived close enough to Eloise that we walked to help celebrate Fay’s 100th birthday in 2012.

    Eloise in center with her Morris first cousin sisters Fay (r.) and Willie Jo

    Eloise confided privately afterwards on the walk back she was convinced Fay’s secret to longevity was her 5:00 o’clock cocktail with a friend every afternoon without fail. I nodded and said I couldn’t argue with that.

    On another field trip in 2012 Eloise guided our driver Frances and her husband Lee to explore county roads between Crabbs Prairie and Shiro to show us land that had been part of the original 320 acres received by Benjamin W. Robinson for his service in the Texas War for Independence from Mexico in 1836. Frances is Eloise’s first cousin on the Robinson side of the family – she and Lee were always up for a field trip. I promise I could never find this property again, but I did take a picture of this typical Texas vista which I then knew had belonged to my 3rd. great-grandfather.

    Eloise prepared refreshments after our field trip – wine a must

    Ending the trip with dinner at Mexican restaurant

    seated l. to r. Lee and Frances, Eloise – standing lucky me

    Pretty and I visited Eloise in February this year when we made a short trip to Texas after a five year absence. I talk about going home every year, but circumstances make the plane ride more difficult and, of course, there was the Covid epidemic. Regardless, it was a joy to see and talk to Eloise, her precious daughter-in-law Donna and her great-great-granddaughter Sophia who reminded us of our Molly. Eloise at nearly 98 years of age recognized us, interacted with us and turned the conversation to what we shared in common: family. She reminded me that our family had given us a good start in life, values to treasure, to always remember where we came from.

    Eloise had many challenges in her later years. She was predeceased by her husband Chester and son Bill but was loved with more than a love by Donna, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. No one could have done more for her than Donna who was her primary caregiver and life preserver.

    To me, Eloise will remain a woman of substance, a woman who “loved her family with every ounce of her being.” No flags fly at half mast today for her funeral as they do for the Queen of England’s passing, but in my mind I see a flag of hope for future generations of cousins who will remember her spirit as a guide for moving forward.

    RIP, Eloise. I will miss you.