dream ranch

I am watching birds and sifting through email. It’s morning and almost the end of 2023. Most of the emails I receive are from journalism outfits, conservation groups and the AARP, almost all seeking money. The birds are more fun.

I’m sure the non-profit journalism folks know this but my legacy or mainstream media providers bullied me into subscription price increases earlier this month. The non-profits, usually not mentioning foundation stipends, nonetheless shower my conscience at the end of the year with pleas for whatever I might fork over. And the New Yorker in December is peppering me for renewal of a subscription expiring in June.

I am a retired newspaperman, supported in part with a pension after 40 years in the business. Instead of reading widely without worry, I am thinking about balancing news needs with discretionary spending.

Two flickers and several scrub jays join the juncos and finches on the fence outside my big picture window. I pour myself another cup of coffee and pass over an AARP email titled, “8 Bad Signs of Liver Damage.”

I quit drinking in 1985 in a rare exercise of clarity and discipline. I feel great but like most of us in our mid-1970s still find plenty to worry about. I tiptoe into a Washington Post opinion piece headlined, “The dementia crisis is here.” The same piece creeps into the touchy topic of assisted living.

Meanwhile, in the concurrence of my digital newsgathering and email reading, I haven’t even gotten yet to Putin, Hamas and American politics. I don’t know how to stop the madness and my new dog, Cowboy2, wants to go for a walk.

I want to shout that it’s the deceptiveness of politicians and their advisers that bothers me the most, the relishing of revenge and combat, often the lack of moral backbone. Then there is that whiny swath of white middle-class voters with victim complexes. Actually not just them but anyone who thinks they should be able to live like a celebrity. And celebrities who make make assassin movies to ensure lavish lifestyles, then complain about having to wear sweats, shades and ball cap for an urban stroll.

Quick, try to think of a TV drama that doesn’t feature 9mm pistols. Combat video games where killing is easy. Gross television shows that turn food into a game. We should have seen it all coming at least since the 80s. Weren’t many of we boomers rebelling in the 60s against unjust war, a draft without an 18-year-old vote, racial discrimination and ticky-tacky lifestyles?

Boomer that I am, I was stunned when Putin in the 21st Century invaded another country almost 80 years after the devastation of World War II. Greed and lust for power I get but I cannot understand or accept why theology still guides some countries and still fuels conflict after thousands of years of human experience.

Sure, everyone has basic needs and, I believe, are entitled to equal chances but reason and even fairness often seem to take a back seat in the pursuit of justice. I think most humans have similar moral sense, though often greatly distorted by political and religious leaders. I don’t think I’m as depressed as Tom Friedman but I appreciate his insights and feel his pain.

I believe the slow-moving super storm in U.S. politics will eventually dissipate, and for the better, though not in my lifetime. I live out West where legacies of European and Anglo American expansion are still playing out. I lived for a year near the “heart of Western civilization” but can’t keep straight the violent crisscrossings of religion and power from before Christ into the early 20th Century.

I admit my erudition isn’t great. At least I know when I’m getting in over my head, like right about now. At least I am OK now with ducking out for a walk. My weak knees, through taking it easy in retirement, probably way too easy, maybe are giving off a false sense of security. But I have also adopted a new dog and I’m still learning new tricks

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