Povey Prattle

There’s the rage and the grief of these times: fires destroying my state, Kavanaugh, soldiers waiting to attack the shoeless refugees at my border, and—oh, yeah—the attempted destruction of our democracy. But these are not what make me feel like giving up some days. They are not what do me in; neither are what look to my tiny princess self like treason, or the UN Report on climate change, the one that gives us 12 years to turn things around before a cataclysm. Oh well, these things happen. My grandson will be 21 in 2130—he will have had a good run. These were the catastrophes that had my book tour audiences in literal tears, ready to give up on goodness, sanity, decent futures for their loved ones. But not me, baby. A few little bumps in the road don’t make me give up, because there is so much to do, and the work brings us well-being—rest a while, march, feed the poor—go outside and look up. I read them the chapter called “Don’t Let Them Get You To Hate Them.” Love

Stock photo' to illustrate the story below. He sat on the sidewalk, head bowed,  with his feet on the parking lot tarmac, and a small haversack on his back. I was there too,  with my neighbour Barbara B., after our usual early Sunday morning peregrination with Zion at Arlington Park. Barbara had gone into Panera Bread (Bahia Vista and Tamiami Trail, SRQ) to get her Coffee, whilst I moseyed around with Zion. And there he was, just as I have described above. "Oh sh-t" I thought.  "It's 7:45 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and the panhandlers are already at work". I decided to ignore him.  But then my better angels took over. Zion and I drew near to him.  I looked at him and said "hi".He responded  with his own  "hi". Z and I moved on. We turned back.  I greeted him again. This time I made eye to eye contact.    I asked "can you use a cup of coffee and a cookie?".  "Yes" he said  "a coffee would be gre

In September 1994 we took my mother to the British and Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery in Bayeux, France. "We" were my brother Martyn, his wife Wendy, their daughter Laura, Mum's second husband Len, and me. Mum's youngest brother Gunner Albert Finch had perished in August 1944.  Fifty years and one month later we stood in silence at his graveside. We took time for Mum to reflect in silence. Martyn and I were moved to be with Mum, but also to see that the remains of young German soldiers were also interred in that British and Commonwealth Cemetery.  Why not?  They too were young kids, caught up in the fever of War. Some British and Commonwealth gravesides also moved us to great sadness. They bore the inscription "Known Unto God".   The scraps of their war shattered bodies could not be identified.   Those   scraps were buried  with all due dignity and respect with these grave markers.  -------------------------------------------------------