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But I just can’t seem to erase those messages without first listening to what sort of crap I’m being told this time—it’s as if I want to validate my anger or something.
Back when I studied writing, we just talked about statements being true or not, but my son Jackson is always talking about logical fallacies this, logical fallacies that. Oh my gosh, are the people who write these advertisements the evil geniuses of logical fallacies, are they just that stupid, or have they sold their souls just to earn money?
Speaking of money—I just can’t stand to note how much money must be being spent on flyers, phone scripts, and television ads these days during elections—which would be at least a little less painful if advertisements shared factual statements such as voting records and gave us context for what candidates have said or what they have done. What if someone were just willing to donate that kind of money toward solving some of this world’s problems? But, no, much of the donated money is just being used to twist words and take those words and any actions out of context.
A favorite of mine: “Did you know that so-and-so voted to take away money from senior citizens, veterans, soldiers, students, children, dying people, highways, orange people, etc.?” Then this is quickly followed by how we all need to live within our means and so-and-so is busy spending your money—but apparently spending it on the green people or whoever doesn’t matter as much to the caller. At the same time, no context is given explaining how much total had to be cut from the budget, how many other officials voted the same way, or any mitigating circumstances that could explain the record. The old “that person is doing a bad job but if I were in that position I would never cut money for the orange people—no matter what” regardless of any circumstances that might change the perspective is an insult to my intelligence about the complexities surrounding decision-making.
And how about the assumption that anyone registered in a party votes party line? Sorry but being told to be a good party person and vote as expected—and that all your other party members have already voted and you better vote soon to make certain that other party does not win—is an insult to my ability to think for myself. As if there could be no validity to candidates from the other side or to issues supported by “those guys”—who are not like us, right? This is an especially questionable technique in a famously purple state such as ours.
Here’s another favorite: while you’re at it, don’t forget to insult my values and call me anti-whatever if I don’t agree with you about how a person in a certain group should vote—in other words, you=values-based and me=lack-of-values-based. Because, really, why would I look to values in my decision-making—I can’t have any if I disagree with you, right?
OK, OK, it’s time to stop this diatribe before another call comes in to provide me with another example of why I don’t answer my phone these days. And time to try to remember what might be right about the election process in this country.
Yes, despite all my anger and frustration over what is wrong with our elections these days, I am grateful I get to vote and that I really do trust that my ballot will be counted.
Though all these people can try to buy our votes with all that advertising, we are still free not to answer their calls and free to vote as we choose.
Well, those old sheets did the trick and those zinnias are still out-performing every expectation I ever had for them. Frankly, when I first planted some expired zinnia seeds two summers ago, I had no idea how they would do in a spot that few plants I’ve tried so far have liked. Thanks to the unrelenting western afternoon and evening sunshine that dominates the area during the heat of July and August and even that of early September, most plants wilt and give up. But zinnias love that spot, so much so that once the plants get established, they require very little water—even in a year much drier than this one.
Not only do these flowers grow easily for me in a tough spot, they also bloom in all different colors, sizes, and shapes. I never know what the next bloom might look like—which is one of the reasons I don’t want the seemingly endless summer of these zinnias to die out a day sooner than—oh, never! I’m always so curious to see what’s going to pop out next. Until the flowers are gone, I’m just going to keep drinking in—daily—whatever they have to offer. Color me zany for zinnias, if you will.
Enough words about the flowers, though. Might as well continue with my tradition of being that annoying person who posts picture after picture of her flowers even though—this time—I’m stopping with five—pictures, that is, not flowers.
Colorado may not have the range of fall colors that explodes in wetter climates but against the backdrop of a robin’s egg blue sky and snow-tipped mountains, the gold glows. Even the native grasses briefly turn from their mostly monochromatic schemes to shimmer in variegated glory.
This year, however, we really have had moisture throughout most of the growing season and even during many of the fallow times. The season’s usual colors in this year are set against grasses that remain green through no human intervention. The wow factor surprises me again and again.
Though the weather forecast calls for no frost in our near future and though we have protected our hanging plants indoors when temperatures have dropped low, it is too late in the season to play that guessing game nightly with the plants we plan to overwinter at Sherman’s office. Reluctantly I prepared those beauties for the annual trip to the office last week before we both carried that burgeoning jungle of greenery and bold blooms into the space with wide southern and western windows our house cannot duplicate.
Even those plants that relied so much on my hand watering, due to hanging in locations that only provide minimal rain access, are so much the happier for the rains that increased the moisture in the air. Humidity—what a concept around here. No, my plants have never had a better season with appropriate temperatures, increased rainfall, higher humidity, and just plain luck from avoiding the worst of the hail that often devastated neighborhoods all around our yard. Our little micro-ecosystem thrived this year with so little effort from me.
I may miss my hanging flower pots, but the delights outside my door remain too glorious for me to mourn their absence too much yet. On yesterday’s drive home from church, all those colors in the established neighborhoods told me I had to get out to see what Mother Nature was offering in her natural neighborhoods—and quickly before those fleeting moments of golden flashiness disappeared.
We took off to one of our favorite fall spots—a location that one day soon will be flooded to provide more reliable access to water for the residents of man-made neighborhoods, especially since most years here are nothing like this year of falling rains, green growth, and flowing waterways.
I’m not sure why there aren’t more songs about beautiful afternoons. Of course, the dawning of morning is such a metaphor for new beginnings and growth, but joy may also come in the afternoon. I know it did for me—and so, while walking one golden afternoon with my husband and dogs next to a river still wild enough to be dammed by beavers and not yet by engineers, I burst out in song.
“Who will buy this wonderful (afternoon)? Such a sky you never did see. Who will tie it up with a ribbon and put it in a box for me?” (All apologies to Oliver!—and anyone who really does have a clear, soprano voice!)
But you see, all that gold does not glitter—it was free for the viewing, but not for the taking. The only ribbon there is is the one that binds October’s shimmering golden dance into my memory to keep me until she returns again—next year.
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