It had not occurred to me that this was a thing you could buy (thank you random Etsy prompts): cane socks. Or, how to be a walking yarnbombing project.

Meantime, I stumbled across Gene Weingarten’s essay on Katherine Graham, who was the owner of the Washington Post for years; her children sold it to Bezos long after her death, after he promised them he would not interfere with the paper.

The second half of the piece is about Bezos’s refusal to let the editorial department publish their endorsement of Harris, old and regretted news at this point.

But the first half. I had not known–or possibly had long forgotten–that when faced with the lawyers saying which of the staff would go to jail if the Post published the Pentagon Papers, Graham said then send them to my house. Make me personally responsible for exposing what they’re doing, not you.

I read that and thought, integrity and courage. The one word repeats the other.

Making myself knit so many baby afghan rows before each time I go re-check the election returns, watching these early ones in horror. Do people even remember what a President is? How could anyone, anyone vote for a felon convicted of dozens of counts of financial fraud, a man found by the court to be a rapist? The guy who crowed over overturning Roe and then casually mentioned in the past week that he tried to get his second wife to abort? The resulting daughter was out campaigning for him.

The lies, the cruelty. The violent insurrection, fer cryin’ out loud??

Why, why, why?

So that did it. I figured if my head is daymaring old car accident scenes it’s past time to take on the source of that stress and answer my own admonition. I’d already put in most of the work but there were a few things on that ballot I needed to learn more about first and decide on.

(Really? A guy in LA made tens of millions off a loophole for charities and made himself a slumlord and fought building better and something about a stadium and paid for repeating defeated ballot propositions as a hobby so there’s ‘the revenge proposition’ about his AIDS foundation regarding rent control? We need Tim Walz over here. Say it with me, Tim: Weird!)

Arizona’s ballot made the front page for being two pages long, front and back–it was going to hold up the lines!

Beginners. Ours was three like that. That’s normal. What it does is tell the voters to do their homework ahead of time so as not to waste anyone else’s. (Pretty much a moot point now that our ballots are mailed to everyone.)

It felt contagiously good to go through all that and declare it ready, so Richard sat down with his.

Prop 34 was the weird one. It should have been fixed by the legislature–you know, where different ideas get hashed out, justifications get shot down, motivations get holes poked in them, compromises made, and tax- and ratepayers’ money gets looked after. Supposedly.

We checked fronts and backs multiple times making sure we’d filled out every single thing correctly. The envelope, too. Card A, I went back and looked at one more time.

Kamala Harris. My filled-out oval beside her name. I held that in my hands and eyes and just let it wash over me.

There was a woman my age reading all the print all over the ballot boxes trying to make sure she was doing this right, a little flustered as I approached at being caught in her uncertainty, afraid of potentially doing anything wrong but quickly letting go of that as she saw my face and laughing for joy with me as we saw our ballots, our precious precious at-long-last votes, our declarations of democracy and hopes for all we hold dear to continue as they slowly slid down inside those slots out of sight.

A neighbor. I have no idea who she is, all I know is if we ever see each other again we will most likely throw our arms around each other in recognition of all that that moment had meant.

And then I went home, found this, and watched Kamala Harris’s speech at the Ellipse, starting at one hour twelve.

That. That was a speech of unity for the ages. That is my future President. That is what I did my part to help come to be. I can’t wait.

The joy!

Wow, Philadelphia Inquirer. Well done.

This was such an antidote after being stunned at the weaselly dishonest complicity of William Lewis’s piece insulting the Washington Post’s readers re why the Post will not make an endorsement between two Presidential candidates that Lewis claims are equally worthy. The Philadelphia Inquirer showed just exactly how one stands up for democracy and the rule of law against the rapist commando-in-thief.

The Post’s Board wrote an endorsement of Harris–but Lewis refused to allow them to publish it.

Rupert Murdoch’s old henchman–remember the case of the dead girl being searched for whose phone was hacked and messages sent from it to her frantic parents as if she were still alive, in order to sell tabloids in Britain? Yeah that guy–has absolutely no business running the newspaper of Katherine Graham and Woodward and Bernstein, of Deep Throat, of the Pentagon Papers.

I read the Washington Post daily growing up and the moment years ago that reading it online became a possibility, I subscribed.

I now expect to read, but it won’t likely be reported there, just how large a percentage of their readers canceled today like I did in protest. There seem to be an awful lot of us.

Tonight, thirteen of their columnists put their careers on the line to speak against the decision at the once-great paper they have loved. (Update a few minutes later: now sixteen.)

For the first time since the 1800s we have had confirmed beaver sightings in the local creeks. It was long thought they maybe weren’t even native to the area, but they were; they’d simply been hunted to extinction by the early settlers.

That was my first thought. The beavers. The fish. The creeks and all the work that’s gone into cleaning them up, as I looked at that photo of vivid fluorescent green running down the street towards the storm drain.

Someone passing by stopped and took video and called 311 to file a report. Someone running for city council saw it too. The fire department came for hazmat control just as workers were coming outside with spill pads to try to contain the mess.

Which would turn out to be ~550 gallons’ worth so far. The council candidate called the valley water authority, which is responsible for the waterways; turns out nobody had thought to inform them of the dumping.

The company?

Tesla.

Why we need to support local, locally-owned journalism: how many people these days get to have a newspaper that does a graph like this?

Across: the names of the candidates.

Down: the questions being asked them.

Their answers: No in red, Yes in green, with a little chat emoji to link to ‘see more of my answer on this’ if the candidate so desires.

Which also means that at a glance you can see which ones didn’t think it worth their time to explain their point of view nor to try to persuade.

It’s certainly not all you need to know about any of them but it is definitely a great starting point.

The vice presidential debate tonight: Walz was earnest, Vance was slick and fast and a clearly well-practiced gaslighter and liar. Trump capped the price of insulin at $35!

I was waiting for the moderators to say no, Biden did. Democrats had been trying to set price caps on Big Pharma ever since Medicare added drug coverage and Biden finally got Congress to pass a phase-in over several years of the most prescribed meds. This was huge.

Vance complained to the moderators that they’d promised no fact checking. Which, the Washington Post pointed out, was a complete lie. And even if it had been true, wouldn’t you WANT the facts to be presented?

Etc.

It was good to see how civil the two men were to each other. It was surprising that they seemed to agree on things like childcare to help young people make it ahead. It was gratifying that Vance was horrified that one of Walz’s children had witnessed a shooting.

It was astonishing and deeply disconcerting to hear how easily and quickly Vance lied about just about everything. Millions cut out of housing because of illegal immigrants? Just how many people who can’t get a Social Security number did he think were signing closing papers on houses, or even just rentals? My husband as a Red Cross volunteer responded to a two bedroom apartment fire that left twenty-two immigrants homeless. They were so poor and so crowded they slept in shifts. The Red Cross didn’t ask about their papers; they cared about the people.  Whom did Vance think were building those houses while being unable to afford one themselves? The Post wondered if he’d added up every bed in every homeless shelter to come up with that random number?

But then he already said he makes up stories to illustrate his political point. I have no doubt he slandered the Haitians in Springville Ohio because they were the darkest-skinned immigrants he could think of and he knows his base.

Trump lies every time he opens his mouth, but at this point you don’t know how much of that is his dementia. Vance–his eyes gave him away a number of times–knew exactly what he was doing and he did it anyway. Get elected, Article 25 that Alzheimer’s idiot at the top and it’s all yours, buddy, he seemed to be saying to himself.

Walz finally asked him point blank: who won the 2020 election?

Vance’s gish galloped off in the opposite direction just as fast as it could run.

I learned something cool!

Did you double-check? he asked. Just because you read it online….

The great Google Deep Dive later, site after site after site said the same thing. Some called it ferrous oxide, some called it rust, one spelled it out: ‘ferrous oxide (rust)’.

I had wondered for some time why old barns were such an iconic red and how, no matter where you are in the country, they all got to be about the same shade (with fading on the older ones, sure.) Having read “No Idle Hands: a social history of American knitting” I knew that red in Colonial times was the least colorfast of colors. This is still mostly true.

And that in George Washington’s day, women riding properly sidesaddle into Valley Forge with rescue supplies nearly got shot because their red petticoats were showing and someone had to yell at an overeager soldier that no you idiot the Redcoats (British) aren’t coming, it’s our wives and girlfriends! Who had apparently freshened up the dye job on those underclothes to look pretty.

But I digress.

So: your barns held your entire next year’s food supply and it needed to be protected. The wood planks the barns were made of needed to be free of decay, they needed not to let fungus or moss grow on them in the rain, and they needed to last year after year and hold up against the weather. Things needed to stay dry inside.

Linseed oil from crushed seeds from their flax plants mixed with rust created a kind of varnish and the rust turned the oil red while killing off the stuff that would damage the wood.

Sometimes limestone was added, sometimes milk (which makes one wonder about the smell on hot days but never mind) but the basic recipe was those two things. The effect was not only useful, it was pretty, and it made it really clear from a distance what that building was and where to find it.

My friends at Cottage Yarns today found just the right colorway for a slightly faded barn with specks of brown in Rio’s Jupiter dye to finish the look. I bought it, Kathryn’s husband went to go wind it up for me–and then I saw the Cereza. A single skein. It was brighter but not too bright. It was that perfect shade of red, with a steadier hand on the dyeing–not monochrome, but a bit heathered rather than a mixture of colors coming together. Bought it too.

I spent a lot of time today under every kind of lighting I could get while the sun was still shining.

And then I went with the Cereza.

The moment it actually went into the afghan it settled right in there like it had been looking for this all of its life.

Years ago, someone I know opened a candy shop near both a university and a high school: target audiences. It did so well she opened a second one in another town.

The guy she hired to run that one was a recent graduate of a top-notch culinary academy, I guess getting in on the ground floor.

This was when political ads were being run warning of a bogeyman–remember when superpredator got smushed into its own single word for awhile? Ie big and black and tall and on illegal drugs that supposedly made him extra strong. After all, the Willie Horton ads had worked for Bush and Dukakis’s candidacy had gone down in flames.

Her employee was a large African-American man.

Her husband was the one who told me of the phone calls–multiple, he reiterated over my stunned disbelief, not just one and not just one person, of people telling them they would not step foot in that second store unless they fired the guy. They had walked in, seen him, and walked right back out.

Instead she offered him a job at the first store and closed the second and made a point of telling that town why. She wasn’t going to be in any way associated with a populace that treated a good man that way and they should be ashamed of themselves.

That was thirty years ago.

Today I was in that town. My audiologist is there, and my hearing aids needed cleaning. Since I have a lot of knitting I want to do on that afghan I brought it with me, carry-around project or not. They warned me it would be awhile, and I knew that, no worries.

So I had a front row seat.

A couple came in. Mid-eighties, easily. He was tall and stooped and walked carefully; she was just as old but more easily mobile. Perfectly coiffed in the kind of hairsprayed upswept curls my grandmother’s generation regularly saw their beauticians for, and perfectly sculpted and tummy-tucked in her skin-tight clothes. She looked seriously about 85 pounds but for the improbably large chest. There is a posh country club nearby and all they needed was the golf cart to complete the look.

He settled down on the couch and she went to the desk. I had started an afghan row with its five dangly balls of yarn.

I finished the row.

Started another one.

Finished it.

Finally, she walked back towards her husband and did a disdainful little yank with her head back towards the young African-American woman who had been trying to help her with all the graciousness one could ever ask for.

There had been others before her who had appointments (including me.) They were going to have to wait.

My friend’s story of long ago came flooding back and I knew I had to do something to show support without putting the young woman on the spot. How do you do this right especially when you know you didn’t hear everything. But I’d seen.

Turns out that technician was the one to bring my finished hearing aids out from the back room two thirds of an afghan row later (and after the couple had left.) The insides had collected water because I’d let it go too long since the last cleaning and that means it takes awhile to dry the electronics safely. So mine took longer.

No worries, truly.

As I put them in I looked at her and asked a little sheepishly, knowing it would be cutting into her work time, Can I show off my moose?

Sure!

I spread the afghan out a bit so she could see and she exclaimed over it and reached to touch that inviting, beautiful wool as I held it so she could. I thanked her; she beamed; she told me, sounding less convinced of it as the words were coming out of her mouth, I could never have the patience for that, while her face started to say maybe I could? I actually want to, no really want to now…

I said, You start off small and work your way up.

Her face! Made me wish I could have taken the time to teach her on the spot.

There’s a yarn store maybe two blocks away; maybe we will have a new knitter soon.

But I loved that the fact that I’m one gave us a means to make each other’s day and, as much as could be done, make up for that earlier experience.

—

(Let me add here that having written most of this earlier and walked away to think about it some more, I’ve reflected on how hard it is to be elderly and stuck being a caretaker, if that was their case. And as someone whose own husband is 15″ taller and quite a bit bigger I know there are limitations on how one would be able to manage. But you just don’t demean others who are trying their best to do right by you. You just don’t. She should have known by now at long last that treating others badly can never make her happier.)

Not that the following matters…

I knew that brand. My husband’s a licensed ham radio operator. Was this just a reporter who didn’t know what they were talking about? Or directing to an audience they assumed wouldn’t?

Walkie-talkies are children’s toys, he affirmed. Counterfeit or not, those would have been ham handhelds.

Spent lots of time doing that staring I talked about, then drawing, attempting to chart, repeat. I can’t wait to see how the rest of the afghan turns out.

And in between, rested my hands while reading about the third of a mile wide and long rock face that fell into a fjord in Greenland last year after the glacier beneath it had melted just enough that it collapsed into the water after lo these many millenia and took the rock above with it.

Which was found after scientists spent days trying to figure out why seismographs around the world were putting out a reading as of a nine-day earthquake but without quite the zig zags.

There had been a tsunami inside that fjord 650 feet high and it just kept sloshing around in that bathtub.

There are often cruise ships in that fjord. But not the day the mountain fell. Metamorphically speaking.

James Fallows is both a reporter and pilot and you’ll often get a cockpit’s-eye view of the world from him.

One of the first things they teach you about flying in DC, he writes, is how absolute the rules are on restricted flight space there.

Last Wednesday a plane took off from DC National Airport (now called Reagan.) It flew straight.

There is only one take-off runway and every plane on it must immediately turn left over the Potomac River.

It did not.

Its flight path was about to take it directly over the White House.

The air traffic controllers reminded the pilot to make that turn. Still no turn.

Finally, they commanded the pilot to call a number upon landing. Fallows says no pilot ever wants to hear that command. He doesn’t say outright that their license is forfeit but it’s certainly an implied possibility, along with I’d guess potential criminal charges.

To my knowledge, this is the first time that airspace has been breached by an unauthorized plane since 9/11. This happened last Wednesday. The name of the plane was the Eastern Express.

It was the chartered campaign plane of one Donald Trump, with JD Vance listed as passenger.

One can only wildly guess at what was going on: was Vance trying to say this will all be mine soon? Was the pilot a MAGA who’d fallen for the rules don’t apply to us mentality of his boss? Was the pilot out to lunch?

But you just can’t be, and certainly not there.

By the time Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania on 9/11 there were fighter jets scrambled to take it down rather than let it continue its course to crash in DC now that we knew that day what those planes were doing.

And a week before that anniversary Trump’s plane threw away the rules and invited that kind of response. Why? Just, unfathomably, why? What message were they sending?

Springfield, Ohio is being destroyed because Haitian immigrants are pouring in and they’re, like, they’re eating everybody’s cats and dogs. They’re eating them! He had to say it twice because repetition makes the lie true.

It does, right?

And then in his closing statement he claimed our military is destroyed because Harris had given all our weaponry to Afghanistan.

What the what now?

He seemed to think she was already President. At other times, he had to be reminded that Biden was not the candidate.

Twice, the moderator asked him point-blank if he had any regrets about January 6. Twice, he turned it into a snarl of self-pity and self-justification–and he claimed nobody had died.

And then blamed “their side” for the death of the “beautiful woman” repeatedly warned and then shot while climbing through the window towards the terrified Congresspeople in the chamber caught on the other side with a mob trying to beat the doors in.

Meantime, Harris had the perfect “Please continue” face. Re Jan. 6th, she reminded him that she. was. there.

She didn’t have to say any more than that.

She told what she was offering the American people in terms of policies and plans, to expand the caps on drug prices to more meds–the concession Biden had had to make on Medicare negotiating drug prices having been that they would start off with only so many being regulated in the first year and the second and the third, etc. Child tax credits. First-timer housing support. (Let me raise my hand here and say thank you USA for the FHA loan on our first that got us in.) Small business support. The return of manufacturing these past three+ years, and the jobs that came with. A tax plan that builds the middle class back up again (and one quite a bit less liberal re soaking the richest than Biden’s.) And, always, the right of a woman to make her own medical decisions, while citing cases of women miscarrying and bleeding in hospital parking lots after being refused care for fear of jail time on the part of providers.

And that’s not left-wing talking points–that has happened. Including sepsis from that lack of care.

Mean, angry, self-centered, chaotic, and, frankly, nuts, vs calm, knowledgeable, competent and caring about others and the future we offer our children with our votes.

It’s just really not a hard choice. Let’s do this.

My friend who took me to Kings Mountain? I took her to Andy’s Orchard today. It was only fair.

Meantime, how is it that never in my life did anyone tell me that young zebras are brown with black stripes? This picture a few days ago made me do a double take and eventually sent me looking for more.

There’s an extinct type called a quagga that, after sequencing its DNA from a museum specimen and finding out how closely related it was to a particular subgroup, researchers are trying to bring back through breeding and luck. They’ve got a small herd going that looks pretty close.

The stripes cool the animal against the heat. Quaggas were the southernmost type, living in cooler temps. They protect against biting flies. There were fewer of those flies there. And thus of stripes.

People were still talking in the 1800s about trying to domesticate that most gentle of zebras when they found out they couldn’t. They wouldn’t breed in zoos. They’d been hunted by colonizers. Animals that are less afraid are easier to catch.

There weren’t any left.

And now, or close to it at least, there are beginning to be some again.

On a side note, I kept trying to figure out why the name made me think of clams. The answer is, there’s a Ukrainian quagga mussel whose fading stripes are such that it was actually named after that zebra.

How on earth did I ever hear of a type of mussel in a river in Ukraine. Oh. That’s the invasive one they’re fighting in the Great Lakes.

Rabbit hole, I tell you. But fun to learn a little bit more about the world.

Seventeen-year-old Gus Walz, tears streaming down his face, leaping to his feet and pointing to his father on the stage and proclaiming proudly, That’s my dad! as he put his hand to his heart and later ran to throw his arms around him, showed America how every child should feel about every parent and every parent should feel about their child. Nothing, and certainly not politics, should ever be allowed in the way of that.

The Walzes say Gus’s learning and social impediments are his superpower. After reading stories of men saying they needed to go reconcile with their adult children after watching that moment, Tim and Gwen are clearly right. Gus showed all of us how to be.

And how we want our leaders to feel about their families.