All are unique expressions of our freedom, our democracy and our way of life.  They include our National parks, our American flag, our National anthem and, of course, our National bird, the majestic eagle.  They are gifts to us as Americans. 

Apparently, there’s a suggestion from some members of Congress that we add to that list of symbols and treasures.  To wit: the AR-15.  A semi-automatic assault weapon.  It would be, according to the proposers: “The American gun.” Or, as suggested by another congressman: “the National Gun of the United States.”

In what world does a gun, any gun, belong in the same sentence, or on the same list, as our parks, our flag, our anthem or our American eagle?  With those things comes beauty, awe and respect.  So often, with a semi-automatic weapon comes destruction, death, and sadness.

The whole idea boggles the mind.  I can only hope and pray there is no forward-going action taken on the suggestions. 

All brought to us by the Murdaugh family of Islandton, South Carolina. 

When we moved here many years ago, we quickly learned that the Murdaughs were going to be constants in our lives.  If only through the grapevine.  It’s just the way it is.

They keep us on our toes with their constant legal problems.  And they most certainly keep our little newspaper in business. 

And, oh, the troubles we’ve seen.  Currently, there are numerous ongoing fraud investigations, the mysterious death of a 19 year old nursing student not far from the Murdaugh estate, an unresolved fatal boat accident involving the family’s boat, and a housekeeper’s death resulting from a fall (push?) down the stairs in the family home.  And now, of course, there’s the double murder of Alex Murdaugh’s wife and son.  For which Alex himself has been accused and is currently on trial.

It’s possible I’ve left out other crimes and misdemeanors.  Please don’t take me to task.  It’s hard to keep up. 

If it weren’t for the enormous amount of damage the Murdaugh clan has left in their wake, the words farce, spoof, and three-ring circus might be appropriate.

But a song from Stephen Sondheim’s  “A Little Night Music” may say it all. And ever so much better. It says simply: “Send in the clowns. Don’t bother, they’re here.” 

But apparently, I’m not gonna get any. At least any time soon.  It’s illegal in most states, and most certainly in South Carolina. 

It’s an old product.  It’s been around since the Nixon era when he, Nixon, decided to ban all research into psychedelics. 

What I want, in old hippie terms, is, some “shrooms.”  Or, psilocybin, to be scientifically correct about it.

It’s a drug that’s being used, increasingly, for dystonia (“The Foot’s” condition and nemesis) and similar afflictions.  With great success and very few risks.

Eminent medical researchers are carrying out clinical trials.  Harvard, Johns Hopkins and Emory, to cite just three.  It appears to be highly effective in microdoses, which equate to less than one/tenth of a “dose.”  Just enough to toggle the brain but never enough to cause a bad “trip.”

The Mister has done exhaustive research.  He’s spoken to and corresponded with experts all across the country.  And outside the country.  All on my behalf.  He gets it.  He knows it’s the right approach but it’s also a dead-end street. The mushrooms from which psilocybin is derived have been used effectively and safely by numerous societies for eons but still we put up barriers to its acceptance.

And so I ponder: Since there’s a refined product that’s been around for decades and is proving to be safe, effective and non-addictive, why can’t I, and others like me, have access to it?

As I was filling out yet another “foot” doctor form, I was asked if I had ever been arrested. I answered “yes” because I aim to be truthful on those things.

Many years ago, I was arrested when I made a left-hand turn at a no-left-hand turn intersection.

When I handed over my driver’s license to the policeman, it was found to be well past its expiration date.  It was also out-of-state.  Neither of those things is good.

I was issued a citation and a notice for a court date.

But I was not alone in the car.  There were five of us, dressed-up and fully made-up as clowns.  We were on our way to do a Children’s Theater program in an area we didn’t know well.

When I burst into tears during the unpleasant encounter, my travelling companions followed suit.

Whiteface paint dripped.  Rouged cheeks bled.  Mascara smeared.  Bulbous red noses fell off.  Our pink polka-dotted costumes were all that remained of our clown-ness.

The arrest itself wasn’t funny. 

The lawyer’s fee and court fees weren’t funny.

The hike in my insurance wasn’t funny.

 The points on my newly issued license weren’t funny. 

But it sure is funny now when I look back on it.  And I’m ever so grateful for that memory. But I still think the cop could have shown a little leniency to the five highly distressed women who were well intentioned but totally lost.   Perhaps In more ways than one.

“Reunification” is defined as the act of unifying people or things into a coherent whole after a period of separation.   It’s almost always an epic event..

“Baggage” is, well, just baggage.  Unless, of course, it’s yours.  And it gets lost.  It may not qualify as an epic event but it’s certainly a major disruption for those affected.

“Baggage Reunification,” a newly coined term, describes the intent to somehow, someway, someday return lost luggage to its rightful owners.

It’s for sure that many bags and many people were separated from each other during the Southwest Airline debacle of Christmas, 2022.  Those people, quite rightly, would like to be reunited with their baggage.

At least I assume most would like that to be the case.  There could be others who would rather not deal with the aftermath.  Let’s unpack that just a bit.

Will there be joy in baggage reunification if there were perishables in those bags?  Perhaps a smoked turkey breast or an exotic cheese assortment? Will there be bliss if some of the stuff in those bags needed a good washing, even before the separation?  Will hugs and kisses still abound when all that tired old red and green wrapping paper reappears and the time limit on “gift returns” has come and gone?

The cynic in me says not.  But then again maybe I should just stay home so I don’t find myself in situations like that.  But wait!  Deep breaths! That’s exactly what we did! All is well.

(This is either a same/old same/old or a tradition, depending on your point of view. Either way, our family wishes the best for you and yours this Christmas and in the New Year.)

The year was 1961.  I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year.  I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.

But Christmas was always hard for me.  What to give to my parents?  My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies.  My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house.  I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it.  There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however.  I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.

The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town.  It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people.  There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.

One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me.  She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day.  It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.

And then something happened that I will never forget.  As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues.  And I heard her say to the clerk:  “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”

I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears.  It was a hard reality.  She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.

And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway?  Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment. 

Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing one that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun?  We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated. 

Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree.  Santa Claus does exist.

But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, of course, in its own way, the true meaning of Christmas.

December 25, 2022 (originally, December 14, 2014)

It’s been over a year since we’ve gathered. So we’re ready for some fun!  Some adventure!  Some intrigue! 

We’ll cackle and laugh.  We’ll dine on wonderful, hearty, food.  Drink some good wine.

We’ll gossip, of course.  What’s the point of a gathering without gossip? 

And, quite naturally, there will be a murder.  We know that from the get-go.  We don’t know who, why, how or when but murder is just part and parcel of the whole thing.  We also know, most assuredly, that our resident detective will figure it out before we turn the last page.

Happily, I don’t need to pack a bag, drive a car or catch a plane to be with my old friends. I don’t even need to get out of bed.  I just click on my Kindle.

Louise Penney’s new book, A World of Curiosities, is just out. So I’m off to Three Pines, the little town central to her books. I’ll totally immerse myself with the residents I’ve come to know and love through the years.  I’ll only be gone a couple of days. I’m a fast reader.

I believe escapism is good for the soul.   I’ll come back refreshed and energized, as always.   Maybe you’ll join me in Three Pines.  I can introduce you to the townsfolk. You’ll like them. I can promise you that.