Tough Time for Farmhouses

 All hail Venus Cloacina, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, school teacher, and I got observed today. What an ordeal! I hope you don't ever have to endure such an indignity yourself.

But the subject of the sermon today isn't observations. I always get a C+, nothing better. I'm used to it.

Today's sermon is yet another rumination on the evils of modern capitalism.

My grandparents lived up in the mountains, but my family and I lived in the Cumberland Valley, which is nestled between the Blue Ridge and the Allegheny mountains. It's a lovely, fertile area with rolling hills and limestone outcroppings (technical name, Karst topography). The Antietam Creek meanders through. So perhaps you have heard of this place.

When I was a kid, there were a few factories north of Hagerstown, and a few more within the city limits. But the major industry in the Hagerstown area was farming. There were cows everywhere. Corn everywhere.

You think I'm kidding? Look at this vintage photo from August 23, 1984. That there is vintage Cumberland Valley. It was so pretty.

Was.

Two scourges have descended on the Hagerstown vicinity. The first is bedroom suburb sprawl. Thousands and thousands and thousands of acres of farmland have disappeared under the onslaught of ugly subdivisions. And as those eyesores multiplied, the grand old farmhouses on the land got ripped down.

It gets worse.

Lately Hagerstown has revived its reputation as the "Hub City." Two major freeways intersect there, Interstates 81 and 70.

You know what you really don't want? You really don't want to live near a freeway.

Have you seen those big, ugly Amazon warehouses? Guess what they need to be near? Ding ding ding ding! Yes! A freeway!

And so there is now a new building boom going on where I grew up. Thousands and thousands and thousands of acres of farmland are being bulldozed and turned into HUGE GODDAMN WAREHOUSES. Folks, we are talking about the razing of farmhouses that were there during the Civil War. In favor of Carvana auto storage facilities and Amazon and Walmart warehouses.

Of course there's a hue and cry when yet another venerable farmhouse (often crafted with native stone) becomes the target of the greedy corporate barbarians. So you know what the barbarians do? They deliberately knock the house down and leave a pile of rubble just to make a point. Sometimes they pull down the house months before any construction begins. Because they can.

I always loved the Cumberland Valley. And it is large enough that portions of it won't be maimed. But the scenic areas where I grew up, near the major highways, well. They are now either crammed with ugly housing or ruined with mile-wide warehouses.

My poor sister still lives there. She spends her days driving around the counties, taking photos of the farmhouses that are about to be torn down. More power to her. I can't imagine doing that. It's easier to stay away.

The moral of this sermon is simple. If you live near a highway, move now! You could wind up staring at an Amazon warehouse and the trucks that move its goods. As opposed to that quaint antebellum farmhouse with its outbuildings and barns. Put your home on the market now, before it's too late. You don't want to watch concrete smother your beloved valley.

Requiem for My Ancient Black Oak

Please do not think I am a vain, self-centered Karen. I hope y'all know me better than that. Because I know what's going on in the news, and I care. But I've taken an existential shock of a different kind.

On Wednesday, June 3 I went in a bus with three other teachers to deliver gift bags and "Class of 2020" signs to 30 members of the Vo-Tech graduating class. Our bus route was entirely in Camden, and I knew about 20 of the 30 kids we feted. Two of them -- the first and the last -- were my favorite students from that year.

I'll have more to say about this experience at a later date.

While we were in Camden, I noticed an ominous black cloud to the west. It moved faster than any storm I have ever seen. And when it hit, it was like a hurricane. All celestial Hell broke loose.

Let's just say I was glad to be on something as sturdy as a school bus, parked by a field with no trees.

The storm passed as quickly as it came, and we actually went ahead and finished delivering our gifts.

While I was in Camden, the storm ripped through Haterfield. And it toppled the Black Oak where I have done my rituals. The tree was 350 years old. It was six feet in circumference. It demolished the house across the street, but miraculously the family living there had just come outside because a little girl was crying and scared of the storm.

How did I find out about this? Glad you asked. The shitty way. Thursday night I saw an off-hand message on a Facebook thread. It wasn't even directed at me. It said, "Did you see the big tree on Lake Street came down?"

It was dark when I read this, but that didn't matter. I leapt out of my chair and ran to Lake Street. And there, to my sorrow, lay my ritual Black Oak. I'm not ashamed to say I cried out loud.

EXHIBIT A: ANOTHER CASUALTY OF 2020

Well, as you can see, this tree was not as healthy as the borough inspectors claimed. But it's so massive that the borough will need to get a crane to lift it. It can't be sawed up.

I never walked past that tree that I didn't give it a little prayer. Part of that prayer was "may the wind and rain be with thee." Oops.

This morning, early, I went up to the site and did a requiem ritual for the tree. I mean, a whole ritual, not just a prayer.

The Haterfield Shade Tree Commission claimed that this tree was the second oldest Black Oak in New Jersey. It was standing on this spot when William Penn arrived in America. But it can't have been terribly healthy, that hollowed out with no root ball.

The people whose house it hit escaped with their lives. They will get a new house. But there will never be another ritual tree like this one for me. We go way back together. Family.


Oh, tree. Blessed be.

Gob-Smacked by the 21st Century Again!

Hello, hello, and welcome to another installation of "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, hardy volunteer at Netroots Nation! Wow, did I bust my chops today!

EXHIBIT A: SELF AT NETROOTS NATION, WITH BOXES OF T-SHIRTS

Netroots Nation is a convention that pretty much gathers every sort of progressive group, from labor unions to First Nations protesters, Daily Kos, ActBlue, plus old standbys like the ACLU and the Society for the Separation of Church and State. On Saturday a few presidential candidates will drop in as well.

My volunteer shift, right at the opening of the convention, consisted of doling out swag bags and free t-shirts. I was part of a team of six volunteers doing this, and we all rose to the challenge.

Do you remember that "I Love Lucy" episode where the candies are coming down the conveyor belt and Lucy and Ethel have to wrap them up? It wasn't quite that intense, but readers, I flew around that swag table like a dervish for three hours straight! There were all kinds of steps for each person and each bag, from making note that they had received the bag, to stuffing it with a few pieces of swag that arrived late, and then getting the right sized t-shirt for the person. Plus, do you know me? How enthusiastic will I be to greet people who hate fossil fuels, love LGBTQ rights, believe in unions, and -- needless to say -- detest Donald Trump? I was all smiles and good cheer!

I've lived near Philadelphia for more than 30 years, and I've spent lots of time at the Convention Center. I know full well that the place never has enough water and snacks available. Today was no different. The bottle of water I brought was gone in the first 90 minutes of my 3-hour shift. And although many attendees wanted to refill it for me, none of them knew where to go to do it. It was okay, though. I made it through those hectic 3.75 hours and crawled panting to the water fountain ... and in a little while I felt fine again.

In the afternoon I attended the Labor Caucus, and it was good old-time union organizing and notes-comparing. Everyone was upbeat despite our current political climate. There were lots of unions represented too. Always a good time when a teacher can rub elbows with a Teamster. It was also interesting to hear about innovative ways that unions are gaining membership. There was no particular speaker, we just talked to the people at our tables and then sent up a brave soul to report out what we'd said that was important. No PowerPoint, no blah blah blah. Then we all gathered in the front of the room for a photo. Oh yeah, and they had snacks and lemonade too! Union, yes!

And then the 21st century came rushing up to club me like some kind of embittered cave man. Oddly enough, this happened at the kickoff for Elizabeth Warren's campaign in Philadelphia.

I've always loved Elizabeth Warren, and in the last year or two she's grown on me more. I started a monthly donation to her campaign awhile back, and she actually called me to thank me. So It was with great excitement that I attended the kickoff, and it was made even better because my daughter The Fair joined me there.

The Warren bash was extremely well-attended. The rented room filled up fast, the organizers put out all the extra seats that were available, and it was still standing-room. As is often the case at such grassroots things, the attendees were mostly (but not all) people of a certain age.

The nice young volunteers stepped up and -- of course -- thanked us for coming. Then they told us they were going to roll out something brand new and really special that they hadn't revealed before at any other event! Wowsa, what could it be? A Skype with Liz?

Turns out the really special thing was an app designed to gather voter data for the Warren campaign.

The Fair's phone was almost out of juice, so she downloaded the thing on my phone. I tried to follow the PowerPoint, but as is ALWAYS the case with me, the presenter flew through all the great things the app could do, and she lost me at the first slide. Haven't I written about this before? I'm a fucking fossil. If it's a new computer program, I just. Don't. Get. It.

My daughter The Fair is not a fossil. She's a sweet flower. As the event wound to a close (with more than a quarter of the attendees leaving early in a thunderstorm), she turned to me and said, "I can sure see how this app will help with organizing, but this is not what I expected this evening to be."

That made me feel a little better.

Elizabeth has a plan for everything, and her campaign will be whiz-bang on the smartphones. (It already is. I get texts all the time.) But on this flash-flood evening, a large number of older liberals were left shaking their heads as they sneaked out into the rain.

Well, what are you gonna do, after all? You can't call people on the phone and expect to speak to them. Heck, Elizabeth Warren called me, and I let it go to voicemail since it said "Unknown Caller!" It's even worse to knock on a door. When was the last time you answered the door to a stranger? So it makes abundant sense to be able to text people and be in touch with them nearer to election day. I just can't do it myself. I'll put my money in the collection plate and feel like a good church lady.

When I went to the elevated train this morning to ride into Philadelphia, I got down on the platform, and every single person was looking at their phone. Every last person. It was so unnerving that I began reciting Walt Whitman poetry. No one noticed anyway, so why not?

People don't own smartphones. Smartphones own people. It only stands to reason that this is the single best way for a geeky candidate to mobilize her base. But I don't like it.

You know what sucks about being a Baby Boomer? Knowing that your best century is behind you.

I'm returning to Netroots Nation Friday and Saturday. Elizabeth Warren will be there on Saturday. Perhaps she'll pat my hand and say, "There there, you can just donate. You don't need to use the app."

Missing the days when phones were attached to walls I remain,

Your reporter from the front lines,
Anne Johnson

Imbolc 2019

It's 4:45 p.m. and still bright daylight, so we are making progress. However, my heart is heavy today. One of my students who I had three years ago died after a long and painful battle with cancer. His funeral service was today.

To me, there is nothing so heart-wrenching as burying a child. Life is no cakewalk, but we still prefer that everyone get a chance to muddle through it, at least past the age of 25. My student was 17.

I had him as a freshman, before his illness began. He was "that kind" of freshman boy, full of energy, lots of friends, and very little (actually none) interest in English class. So he wound up sitting right in the front, right by my desk, for most of the year. (I tend to do this with "those kind" of boys.)

This student told me he hated to read. He'd never found a book he liked. Then I handed him a few of my carefully curated young adult urban lit novels, and he started reading. I can still see him turning the pages, lost to the world, right in front, next to me.

Today his friends looked shell-shocked, and his family looked worse. No amount of faith in God and Jesus makes this easy to bear ... I'm sorry, that's just the way it is.

This young man had a beautiful smile and was full of antics. I'll miss seeing him cross the stage for his diploma this spring.

I petitioned the Orishas to find him and acquaint him with the Ancients of his line. For good measure, as I was in a Baptist church in downtown Camden, I asked Jesus to please allow this to happen.

May his ancestors greet him. May he find his way to the Ancestors in the Old World, before they were sent to these hostile shores.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Across the street from my house there are eight healthy, mature trees slated for the ax. The trees have big red X marks painted on them. (See Exhibit in previous post). Additionally, there are two ornamental trees also bearing X marks.

Today was a Sunday, which meant that I would immerse myself in the New York Times for a few hours like I always do when I'm home on the weekend. I took the newspaper and sat out on my front porch, which has always been kind of like the Shady Rest with such a leafscape across the street.

While I read the paper, I also watched my neighbors walk past the house that is slated for demolition by the middle of August. (In case you're late to this news feed, the house is in great shape, stem to stern, but the property was bought by a developer who wants to build two houses on the property, somehow necessitating the destruction of all those trees.)

It was interesting to see peoples' reactions to all those X marks and the real estate sign "lot for sale."

One man stood and stared, shook his head, and moved on.

The young jogging girl didn't notice.

A woman my age from the next block over stopped and talked to me about it for 30 minutes. She explained the importance of everything being brand new (and that master bath!). To whit, busy working millionaires don't want to spend their weekends on home improvement and maintenance. They want everything new and perfect. She estimated the yearly property taxes on each house would be $30 to $40,000. You read that right. Five figures. Yearly.

My neighbor whose house will be next to the destruction/construction came out, found the surveying marks that delineate his property, and put posts by them. He is rightly concerned about incursion. We wondered together if perhaps the largest of the trees might be on someone else's property.

A couple walked by with their dogs. They stopped, looked, said something to one another, moved on.

A neighbor who frequently walks his dog past my house looked at the sign, looked at me on the porch, and shook his head sadly. He was wearing earbuds.

A black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows pulled up in front of the sign and stopped. I could barely see two people in the car. I heard a phone ringing in the car. It rang seven times and then got picked up by an answering machine. The Benz drove on.

A man in a maroon SUV drove up. Stopped at the "lot for sale" sign. Reversed to the other edge of the property. Drove forward again very slowly. Stopped at the sign again. Then moved on.

A few other dog-walkers went past without noting or commenting.

My Beta cat slept on the back porch. Gamma tiptoed around. He's kind of spooky.

Snobville is very quiet in July and August. Most folks go to the Jersey Shore. There's a feeling in my heart of All Hell about to be broken loose.

Nor did reading the New York Times improve my sensation of Impending Doom.

Lottery Ticket

Let me introduce you to my student. I will call her Sweetie Pie for reasons that will soon be obvious.

Sweetie Pie has perfect attendance. Every morning she says hello with a sweet smile. She gets her work and settles right in. Reading is very hard for her, but she tucks in and tries. It takes her longer to do her assignments, but she never misses one. She takes work home to complete it, if she doesn't finish during school time. At the end of class (I have her in the morning), she tells me, "Have a nice day!"

Sweetie Pie's written work shows elements of struggle. "Even though" in her writing comes out "even doe." She writes what she hears, of course. But she does write. She'll fill a page, and if the grammar and spelling aren't good, her ideas are. I probably wouldn't do much better at writing a page if I had to do it in a foreign language, and the people speaking that language around me didn't speak it so well.

I've got to hand it to Sweetie Pie. She wants to do her best at all times. She wants to be her nicest at all times. Everyone likes her. She is an angel.

Today I asked my students to do a free-write about the lottery. They had several options. One option was to imagine what they would do with the money if they won the lottery.

Sweetie Pie chose that option to write about. Then, in search of another bright sticker for her binder (I buy these myself), she read her one-pager. My blood ran cold.

What would Sweetie Pie buy with her lottery winnings? Citizenship.

Readers, how can we deport such a one as this? And she is one of many where I teach.

What will I do if I come to school one day and she isn't there?

I'm crying about something that might happen. What a world.

It's My Country, and I'll Cry If I Want To

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we prize sanity, not vanity. I'm Anne Johnson, and sometimes things make me cry.

On the morning after Election Day, my school district had a teachers' meeting scheduled. It's a good thing, because so many of us were in tears that I can't imagine how we could have taught anything in the classroom. The most grief-stricken of my colleagues? The history teachers.

You can therefore imagine my dismay and disappointment when one of my friends -- and a good one, a true one, someone I considered "bosom" -- posted on Facebook that all the crying people "ought to go live in China, or Cuba, or Iran, if you really want to cry about something." This post came from an intelligent man.

I've seen quite a few less intelligent individuals expressing the same sentiments. Don't like the fact that an incompetent, fractious, conceited blowhard has been elected to head the Ship of State? Move to China!

There is so much I could say about this, but I'll try to be brief.

First of all, if your candidate won, and you are happy about it, why does it bother you that people -- particularly women -- are crying? Oh! I can answer that! You are just a little bit uncomfortable about this election yourself. You feel in your bones that this won't turn out well. But hey, you are celebrating anyway! And how dare anyone fling a little reality at your glee?

Secondly, do you mind if I ask how you would be responding right now if the polls had been correct, and Mrs. Clinton won? Don't answer that. I know. You'd be out on the range, shooting your AK at human-shaped targets. You'd be standing by your man, who would be DEMANDING a RECOUNT and CRYING FRAUD. Don't tell me you would have bowed to the will of the people, stone-faced and stoic. I'm not buying it.

Thirdly (please give me extra credit for these thoughtful transition words), why move to China, Cuba, or Iran when it's going to be just like China, Cuba, and Iran right here? I don't have the money for a plane ticket. And let's see: Where would I be going if I did have that ticket? To a country ruled by a handful of above-the-law elites who oppress their citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law. Why fly, when I can get all those perks right here? It's only a matter of time.

And now, to all of you "Stop Crying and Move to China" white males, I will say this:

Okay, I'll go. Now, here's where you need to go.

You need to hop inside the covers of a Charles Dickens novel. Yes, propel yourself back to Victorian England, where a handful of above-the-law elites oppressed citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law! I understand there's a partnership opening at Scrooge and Marley. You're perfect for the job.

An Old Acquaintance Heads to Washington

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," emitting sardonic snorts since 2005! I'm Anne Johnson - it's my real name. Honest, I wouldn't make that up.

Wow, it's been a long time since I got bombarded with fire and brimstone and the sulfurous odor of foul Hell itself. But here it is, wafting in the wake of Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, The Beast, aka The Devil. Get this: He wants to be called "Mr. Applegate." He's a fan of old Broadway shows.

I guess I'd better intervene before he sits down. No getting that stink out of a well-upholstered sofa.

EXHIBIT A: MR. APPLEGATE, UNVARNISHED

Anne: What are you doing here? I thought I'd seen the last of you. You're so 2005.

Applegate: Ha ha! Joke's on you. I was down, but not out. I was wounded, but not killed. I was battered, but not broken. I was ...

Anne: Jesus! I get the picture! Enough with the tired cliches!

Applegate: I just stopped by on my way to Washington, DC.

Anne: Of course. Why did this not occur to me? I suppose you've found gainful employment.

Applegate: And how! It's like a candy store. Whatever I want, in whatever portion I choose, for however long I want it. Times have changed, thank goodness. I was really getting bored.

Anne: I don't even need to ask for whom you will be working in the nation's capital. In fact, don't even say his name. It's like Voldemort; I can't bring myself to utter it.

Applegate (rubbing his hands together): Just doesn't get better. You're in for a treat, Anne! Watch as I transform into my newest incarnation! I've been working hard on it.

EXHIBIT B: MR. APPLEGATE, BELTWAY BOUND

Anne: You'll fit right in.

Applegate: About time, too. I thought I'd get America back when they ditched the whole e pluribus unum thing back in the 1950s. Oh well, if you look at the course of history the way I can, a half century isn't any time at all.

Anne: I'm not even curious about what you're going to do in DC, so don't tell me.

Applegate: So glad you asked! So many tasks, where do I start? Do I ramp up the steam on climate change first and take charge of women's bodies second, or should it be the other way around? Build the Wall, or bomb Iran? Maybe I could multi-task and do it all at once! Why not? I'm a deity, after all.

Anne: You won't get away with it. Most Americans don't want your boss, and they sure don't want to lose their Medicare.

Applegate: Medicare is done! Hey, if you can't afford a hospital, don't get sick! It's a very simple game.

Anne: Applegate, I always figured you for an equal opportunity kind of guy. Like, I never thought you cared more about one race than another, or more about one religion than another. You just liked bad people of all stripes.

Applegate: And I still do! But I know some first-class haters when I see them, and the folks who voted in the regime change are going to be excellent ... brilliant ... at inflaming the masses. I haven't seen this quality since ...

Anne: Don't even say it. Just. Don't. In fact, get your Aryan ass out of my house! This property has been a No Republican Zone since 1987.

Applegate: What a pity, Anne! You could get a nice, plum assignment down there in DC right now. There are staffing opportunities aplenty. And look at you. Teaching inner city kids. You could do so much better.

Anne: Get the FUCK off my LAND you VILLAIN!

Applegate: Tsk tsk. Such rudeness! Just for that, my first priority as part of the new regime will be to end all free and reduced lunches for those loser poor kids that you teach. Yes, that will be a brilliant beginning. Brilliant! Are those tears I see in your eyes, Anne?

Anne: Go away.

Applegate: Oh, yes. Absolutely. Bon voyage! My years of self-pity are behind me! It's time to get to work.


And there he goes, off toward the Amtrak with his suit and his briefcase. You know what the worst part is? Everything he'll be doing down there, he'll give all the credit to Jesus. What a fucking world.

Then and Now

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you are one of my three readers still looking in to see if I'm here, let it be known ... Anne is back! The stakes are high, and the steaks are dry. Or some such.

Wow. A lot has happened since almost a year ago, when the passing of Decibel the parrot was my last entry. So, what did I do between then and now?

One thing I did, happily and with an abundance of enthusiasm, was attend a Bernie Sanders rally at Temple University on April 6.

Look at Spare and me in this photo! It was freezing cold that day, not a speck of sun and a whipping wind. We got to the Liacouris Center at noon and stood outside until 5:30. Then we went inside. Spare went onto the floor to get as close to Bernie as she could, and I grabbed a seat. The arena slowly filled to capacity, which is 10,000 plus the standing room only on the floor. Bernie began his speech at about 8:30 or 9:00, and when it was over, he shook Spare's hand as he left the stage. When we caught up to each other, we wept tears of joy.

Senator Sanders' message resonated with both of us. We desperately wanted him to be the Democratic nominee for president.

We were deeply disappointed when he lost.

 I personally went to a Bernie rally during the Democratic National Convention (it was 105 in the shade that day), but after marching down Broad Street I had an impromptu conversation with a Jamaican immigrant lady who was furious with the Bernie-or-Bust crowd. When she confronted me, the conversation went kind of like this:

Lady: How can you do this? Don't you see you make it possible for that man, Donald Trump, to win?

Anne: Oh, let me promise you! I will vote for Hillary. I know the stakes are high.

Lady: Because, seriously, I'm afraid I will be sent back to Jamaica if that man Donald Trump gets elected. And I am a citizen of the USA.

Anne: Oh, don't worry about a thing! The American people would never elect such an unprepared and temperamental man to such a serious and demanding position of power!

Lady: We'll see.


That was Then.


This is Now.

On Thursday, November 10, 2016 Spare and I (and our friend Nettle) took part in a hastily-organized protest against Donald Trump. It was a Women's March. Spare made her sign. Again we wept together, this time in the dark and the cold, this time in despair.

Presidential primaries exist for a reason. They serve as platforms for the exchange of ideas. They serve to put as many issues and positions on the table as possible. Bernie Sanders was quite clear and articulate about the issues he saw as important. Hillary Clinton skirted these issues mostly, setting herself up as (a) someone about to make history, and (b) not Donald Trump.

I voted for her. Spare voted for her. So did lots and lots of other people. But the cold, dark times are upon us. The worst possible set of faux Christians has grabbed power-- the very people I used to poke such fun at on this blog.

The bored Gods are appalled. For the love of fruit flies, even Jesus is appalled.

I'm not a terrorist, I'm not being paid by George Soros or anyone else. But I'm going to speak. I'm going to protest. I'm going to cover this apocalypse with my Swiftian blog. I feel that, as a Pagan, I am being called upon to support religious liberty ... not to mention trying to keep Social Security checks rolling in to my ailing mother-in-law. And so much else. I'll cover it all.

I wonder what happened to that Jamaican lady I met in Philly last summer. I guess she's blaming me for this. Well, there's blame aplenty to be assigned. If my support of Bernie Sanders brought Donald Trump to office, then burn me at the stake. You've got to stand for something in this world.

Decibel the Parrot, 1986-2015

I thought she would live to be 70 years old. That's what I'd heard that parrots do. When the vet told me she was nearing the end of her lifespan at age 29, I couldn't believe it. I wasn't prepared.

Decibel the parrot died of atherosclerosis on Black Friday. She had had a heart attack two weeks earlier, and I rushed her to the vet. That's how I got the diagnosis. She was given an X-ray that showed fatty buildup in her heart. I got her a prescription of blood thinner, and she was taking it very well twice a day, but it wasn't enough to prolong her existence in the apparent world.

Well, she didn't fly, and she did love her sunflower seeds and snack cakes. Just like a human.

When Decibel was young, my grandfather was alive, and my children weren't born. She came to me as a partly-feathered chick and lived with me all her life. I loved her, but I grew to understand that she was a wild animal forced into an unnatural state of living that was not even remotely close to what she should have had or what she might have been. It's great that she could call for my daughter, say my name, chuckle, cry, sing off key ... but what she couldn't do was soar above the rain forest with her own kind, mate, raise her family, and get all the exercise and proper food her little body required.

Life will be so odd now.

It's not like my whole day revolved around Decibel -- far, far from it -- but she was always in my mind, in my reality, part of the daily routine. She was an antagonist, a source of laughter, an obligation, a friend, a needy child. With all of that removed suddenly, there's quite a void. My mind still expects her to be there. I'm sure it will be that way for awhile.

I buried Decibel the parrot with the poppet Mrs. B made for her, under a young oak tree near the infamous Snobville Pond. There's a bench where I can sit and see her well-hidden resting place (didn't want the resident night critters to dig her up).

I'm still in the close-to-tears phase of mourning. I'm racked with guilt that I didn't spend more time with her ... although I did in these ending years.

I owe an apology to Decibel and to Gaia. Goddess, I was young. I didn't know this "pet" should be a wildling. Forgive me.

Decibel, you did good with what you were given. You did real good, ol' girl. May you have found a Summerland that is 100 percent rain forest, 100 percent of the time.

Another Goodbye

Welcome to The Gods Are Bored, where we find our mission accomplished! Many bored deities of many pantheons are no longer bored. They have growing praise and worship teams who are seeking to communicate with them genuinely, humbly, and with curiosity. That's all a deity really wants. I should know, I've interviewed dozens of Them.

I've come to an end of the road. I find I have trouble infusing my life -- and this blog -- with the humor that once animated it. But before you bag The Gods Are Bored, pick a year. Any year. I wrote a lot of funny stuff, and it's all still here online. You could literally read me three times a week for five or six years. Some of the political screeds are stale, but the rest of it, the interviews, social commentary, and Pagan child-rearing, hasn't changed. And maybe I'll re-discover my funny bone. There are many reasons that it has disappeared. I'm hopeful it will return in the fullness of time.

Yesterday I got up at 4:00 a.m. to go to the beach for one of my favorite pastimes, collecting sea glass. When I got to the beaches on Absecon Inlet, they were covered with bulldozers and chain link fences. Somehow, economically depressed Atlantic City has found money to construct a sea wall straight down the inlet, so that the five sea glass beaches will disappear. Two of them were already off limits.

I watched the sun rise over one of the smaller beaches that has yet to be bulldozed. It was so peaceful and beautiful. The tide was going out, and the waves lapped gently on the shore.

 This realm of King Triton and Queen Oshun will be altered because storms like Hurricane Sandy impinge upon the high-end real estate in the area. The sea wall is being constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers, those humans who seek to impose their will on the Goddess, to little avail.

I had bonded with this stretch of beach, pleased that it soothed my aching longing for Appalachia. Now I'm aching for Appalachia and Absecon Inlet. Change, change. Daughters grown, farm sold, beaches bulldozed, aching joints, vultures no longer wintering in the area, dissolution of spiritual bonds. Can't shrug things off like I used to with a la-di-dah.

Yesterday was my swan song at the sea glass beach. The God and Goddess took pity on me and gave me a parting gift that will forever be special in my heart. Where do I go now?

There's one more post I'll put up. Yet another agent has showered my novel, Gray Magic, with indifference. Therefore, my next post will be the PDF of Gray Magic. It's yours, free, to shower with your own indifference. It's not perfect. It needs the editorial hand it never got,because it didn't ever get that far into the process. Still I think it's a good story, with a real ending.

Here's my gift from King Triton and Queen Oshun. It's my fourth and final beach marble. All glory, laud, and honor to the Deities of the Deep!

Blessed be,
Anne Johnson
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

No One's Buying the Cow

Mr. J just lost his last writing gig. There is nothing on the horizon.

What's Really Behind Our Education Crisis?

On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Camden County Courthouse in Camden, NJ, to see some of my students compete in a thing called "Mock Trial." Mock Trial is hard to describe, but I'll try: Every year, school teams get a "case" that is fictitious but on a timely topic. The students have to be attorneys and witnesses -- they have roles to learn, but it's not a drama: It's a court case. The competition is held over two weekends in the courthouse and is presided over by real judges who accord points to each team. The team with the most points at the end goes on to a state-level competition.

I went because four of my eleven Freshman Honors students are on the mock trial team. When I got there I found out which opposing team my freshmen would be facing: Our county's most expensive and exclusive parochial school, Bishop Eustace Prep.

So here are my minority kids from Camden, who collect their free lunches every day, going up against kids whose parents can fork over $16,000 a year in high school tuition, knowing that college is just around the corner.

My students acquitted themselves very well, under the circumstances. Given that they are freshmen, if they stick with it they could really contend in a year or two.

It was what I saw when I left the courthouse that made me want to cry.

Right across the street from the Camden courthouse is a branch of the Camden City Library. The building was vacant and boarded up. No books there!

Our American government has sunk millions upon millions into a standardized test that is based upon the notion that students are only ready for college and careers if they are literate and critical thinkers. The coffers of Pearson, Inc. are brimming with taxpayer ducats that have been used to develop this test.

On top of that, our sitting president just told us, in his State of the Union Address, that he wants to make community college free. Everyone needs two years of community college to get a good job in this modern world, and four-year institutions are way too expensive.

So we have money that has been spent developing a national standardized test for grades 3 through 11. And ostensibly we will spend more taxpayer money on free college.

And the public library in Camden sits shuttered and empty.

Billionaire Bill Gates want to influence our national educational curriculum to better reflect the way he learned. To his way of thinking, school teachers are enemy number one, because they aren't all like the professors he admires.

Did I mention that the public library in Camden is shuttered and empty?

I'm not Bill Gates, not by a long shot. But I did comport myself well at Johns Hopkins University. I graduated 15th in my class. To me, that makes me as much an expert on education as he is. Quite.

Mr. Gates, open the libraries! President Obama, open the libraries! Get every one of those public libraries open, warm, well-lit, and filled to the brim with books! Have a whole floor just for ages one through six -- books, toys, computers, fish tanks, guinea pigs, toddler time, movie night! Have another floor for elementary school. Another for high school. Another for adults who need to use computers to take online classes. Open the goddamn libraries!

Our country will never meet its literacy and critical thinking objectives by designing fancier tests. Our students will never become great readers just through the efforts of school teachers. WE NEED LIBRARIES, AND WE NEED THEM NOW.

Take that free community college earmark and use it to re-open, refurbish, and re-stock all the shuttered libraries in all the poor communities across this wide nation!

I learned to read at the public library.
I got all my reading material, growing up, from the public library.
I did my homework in a public library.
I researched my family history in a public library.
I wrote encyclopedia entries -- hundreds and hundreds of them -- using public library resources.
My imagination caught fire within the walls of a public library.

Do you want to know why America lags behind many other nations in its education scores? Look no farther than the SHUTTERED LIBRARIES. There's no root under the tree.

Micro Meadow Mangled

We didn't even choose the lowest bidder.

But never mind. The "professional" tree service Mr. J chose to trim our ancient pear tree consisted of a cast of goofs.

They arrived promptly at 7:30 Monday morning, powering up their chainsaws in a way that pays back all of our noisy neighbors for their damn leaf blowers and lawn services.

Mr. J went out to greet them. I heard him tell them to be careful with the garden.

About two minutes later, I heard one of the crew say to the other, "Didn't the guy tell you to be careful with the garden? Look where that branch landed!

It landed in my micro meadow, crushing just about everything.

There was only one flower blooming in the whole patch. They knocked it over.

Not seeing any other flowers, they just tramped through the patch, dragged branches over it ... even after I came out and told them not to. I said that the garden didn't look like much, but that it was just planted this year.

All the plants were doing well, too. The prickly pear had grown ... and there was that one lone purple spiky flower. Now in a vase in the kitchen.

Our neighbor across the way came out in a purple rage because branches (and pears) were falling in his yard.

The proprietor of the service told Mr. J that his crew would arrive with "a million dollars worth of equipment." I don't know where they stored it. They used our step ladder and stood (perilously) on the roof of the garage.

They did not wear hard hats. No brains to protect anyway.

 One would think that wild flowers can bounce back from a bashing. Time will tell. Tree-trimming is an affront to the Green Man. Guess I'll pay the price.

Oh ... I was smart enough to cover the Shrine of the Mists with a good, strong tarp. If they had trampled that, I would have had to join a well regulated militia pretty quick.

Eulogy for My Favorite Uncle

My uncle Foggy died yesterday. He was not born with the name Foggy, but after a bully called him that one day in his youth, he and my dad and his friends liked it so much that it stuck. Even my grandfather called him "Fog."

He was the product of a teenage indiscretion that led to a hasty marriage ... the marriage lasted almost 60 years. He grew up in Appalachia and was part of what I call the Appalachian diaspora. At about age 20 he married and moved to Cleveland, Ohio. There he raised a family and worked a series of white collar jobs until he was the age I am now. Then he got laid off for the last time. He moved back to the mountains, moved in with my grandparents at the family farm, and helped out as they got older.

In an era not known for six-footers, Foggy was 6'4". He towered over everyone in the family. Maybe that's why the nickname stuck, because we always teased him about what the weather was like up there. When I was a little kid, he would lift me up on his shoulders, and it would be like riding a giraffe.

Foggy and I had tons of fun together. He was my favorite uncle, and the one I spent the most time with as a kid and young adult. Because he was living at the family farm, I saw him frequently. He was always a talkative person, and as he spent more and more time alone after my grandparents died, he became extremely long-winded when I would visit. Still, I loved him. He was quick to laugh and had a keen wit. He loved satire and had no problem poking fun at Appalachia. He was a good cook.

When Foggy left the workforce, he did some pretty rigorous hiking with my cousin. Stuff that I sure would be hesitant to do at this point in my life. He backpacked the Appalachian Trail and hiked along the shoreline of Lake Superior. He traveled across the country numerous times, by car and rail and plane. In this picture he is already well into his 50s, maybe flirting with 60, and he sure didn't get to that spot by some tourist tram.

Most of all, he was self-taught. He attended less than a semester of college, but he was very well-read. Okay, so he specialized in the Civil War and read all those Louis Lamour Westerns, and all that James Michener stuff, but he always had a book in his hands.

I have an old journal here in which I recorded some of our adventures at the family farm when I was in my late teens. We had some rip-roaring good ol' times, especially when we were lubricated with vodka gimlets.

After my grandparents died, my dad and his brother got all of us nieces and nephews to agree to let Foggy live out his life at the family farm, rent free. There was never anything put into writing. It was what I thought of as a blood obligation. Foggy's work history was spotty, and he took his Social Security early, so he had a very limited income much of the time. Even so, he kept up the house and the property. He mowed more grass than my grandfather ever did, and between him and my cousin, the place actually improved instead of rotting, which is what many other similar properties have done.

It was such a fabulous feeling to be able to go to the family farm, see it so neat and well-maintained, hike its woods and fields, and have a cocktail and chat the night away (or, actually, listen the night away) with Uncle Foggy.

There were plenty of kinfolk up in those hills who would have welcomed his company, but for some reason, voluble Foggy didn't socialize much outside his immediate family. In his loneliness he listened to talk radio, and that habit led him to Rush Limbaugh. He fell under Rush's spell, and that became a game-changer in our relationship. I found that it wasn't as much fun visiting the mountains if I had to hear about welfare deadbeats and feminazis. The "Rush-talk" about the social safety net was particularly galling, because if not for that Social Security and our good will agreement regarding the farm (and his own children's generosity), he would have needed far more social support than he got.

Old age closed in on Foggy, and once again he was lucky. I have an able-bodied male cousin who was able to care for Foggy at the family farm, thus lengthening the years that our family held onto the farm. It was only two years ago that the situation became untenable, and wowsa, my sister and cousins closed in to put the farm up for sale and grab the ducats post-haste. I didn't have enough money to buy the place, since some local fellow had been eyeballing it for years and was willing to shell out our asking price, in cash.

The last time I saw Foggy was in November 2011, just a few months before the closing on the farm. In farewell I gave him a huge hug and tried to hide my tears, because I knew it was the last time I would see him in the apparent world. By that time he had drifted into deafness and away from Rush, so he was more like a benign elder version of the rip-roarer he'd been at 60.

Foggy was a very talented cartoonist, and if any of us had known how to get into that business, he might have made something of it. I've shared one of his best pieces here before, but my sister had one that she put up on Facebook that I'd forgotten about. I wrote the poem, and he did the drawing. The artwork is a nod to both me and my sister, since she likes Canadian geese and has a favorite yellow sweater. I can date it to 1981 or thereabouts, so it's pre-Rush, and very un-Rush, in its sentiments.

The poem reads:
We Johnsons are a merry clan
Who seem to lack a Master Plan.
Ambition's made of sterner stuff,
Although folks find us smart enough.
A day of rest's a day well spent.
Just getting by makes us content.

May the Gentry of Sidhe welcome his spirit. May he have found the Summerlands. May he play forever as a happy child, with my father and the faeries of Pan. Now my ancestors have all departed, and I am the elder. It's daunting.

But there's some rip-roar left in this gal, yep.

Floyd H. "Foggy" Johnson, 1926-2013.

Runnin against the Wind

This morning I had to go to the pharmacy for allergy pills. I saw a school bus in the parking lot that had the name of my Vo-Tech on it. I thought the placement of the bus curious but didn't give it much more thought.

Driving home I have to pass through a county park that has a lot of running trails. As I was driving, I saw a bunch of girls running along the street. "Oh!" I thought. "That looks like Kay'sha!" And then I saw another girl who I recognized.

So, quick as a wink, I pulled over and cheered them on. They were the girls' cross country team from my school, out for a run before it gets too hot!

My girls. The other ones. The ones who don't live in my house.

Kay'sha was out in front. She's the best runner on the team. Last year her brother was shot and killed in a drive-by. Crystal, who stopped briefly to say hello to me, has a sister who is battling lupus with inadequate and indifferent health care.

Last spring, Clarissa had a baby and fell short on the high school proficiency test. We all thought she would pass. She cried. Today she was out running with the rest.

The world is arrayed against these young women. As I prepare for a new school year, in which I will be teaching to a national proficiency test that I have not yet seen, I think about all the smackdowns challenges my girls face. Even their African American president is making the test standards tougher, making it harder if not impossible for them to earn that essential high school diploma.

The new high school proficiency tests are being designed by college professors, based on the skills these professors think are lacking in students who get high school diplomas. My students start lacking skills the minute they walk in the door in kindergarten. They never catch up. In the case of the Vo-Tech, my girls are learning trades like nursing assistance and medical record keeping -- making them employable right out of high school, so long as they get their diplomas and pass proficiency tests in their trades. Yes, you are reading right. My students, all of them, have to take two tests: one for academic high school, another for the trade they've studied.

I would feel more zealous about the new, tougher high school standards if I hadn't been in a group this summer that toured businesses and industries in my area. It is still possible to get an entry-level job with a high school diploma (good attendance, no tattoos) where one can learn the skills necessary for the business in-house and move up through the ranks. My students have done this at the fancy grocery stores too. Even at Home Depot. But they all needed that high school diploma.

This is so blatantly unfair, it makes me want to weep. We expect our most disadvantaged students to be bright enough to compete not with China's worst (Flower Lace Bra; see below), but with China's best. You know what happens in the inner city schools? Kids turn 16 and drop out. "I wouldn't pass the proficiency test anyway," they say.

Stop this madness! Find a way to educate and train all children, without trying to fit them all into a single mold! Does my auto mechanic need to have read Ovid?

I'm repeating myself. Guilty as charged. It just fills my heart with ache to see my girls out running in the park. What is waiting for them at the finish line?

More Embarrassing than Free Porn

The other day, Spare and I found ourselves at the shopping mall. I don't like to go there, because have you noticed? There's nothing at the mall that you need to buy. It's all frivolity.

Spare likes a store called Forever 21. This store caters to a young clientele, so it has sexy clothing at low prices. I saw a rack of denim jeans, priced at $7.99. They were dyed, thick cloth, and seemed well put together. But that price! It's a thrift store price, almost. Like, within a dollar or two of Goodwill, for a brand-new pair of pants.

I was intrigued by the notion that a company could make a profit from an eight dollar pair of pants, so I looked (and looked and looked) for the tag that gave the "made in" information. Found it: Made in China.

Figure that Forever 21 has to pay its executives, its store staff, rents on the mall locations, shipping, and probably some designers or buyers. All of this has to come out of these low clothing prices before we even get to production. On the production side, there's the physical plant and machinery, supervisors, and training personnel even before we get to the individual laboring to make the pants.

All this for an eight dollar pair of pants. Basically, everything in the store is similarly "priced to sell." Forever 21 makes a dollar holler.

When you buy something at Forever 21, the clerk puts it in a plastic bag with "John 3:16" on the bottom of the bag. Forever 21 is a Christian company. They do not try to hide that fact.

Well, honestly, I think they do hide it pretty well. Many of the clothes for sale in the place are, if not daring, at least alluring. It's not the kind of garb you would expect a Christian company to sell. Spare and I found ourselves looking at a long, clingy tank dress that had a Cross on it with the words "Never Break the Rules." It didn't compute. I can't remember ever seeing anything with more of a mixed message in my life.

Forever 21 casts itself as a Christian company, but judging by the style of the clothing sold there, it is not upholding standards of modesty expected of modern-day Christian young women. Worse than that, the $7.99 pair of jeans made in China indicate most strongly that this company operates sweat shops. There's just no other way to account for that price for a brand-new piece of sturdy denim with all the usual pockets, studs, and double-stitched seams. How shamefully deceiving! You throw a Bible verse on a plastic bag, and that makes it okay to indulge in questionable taste in fashion and slave labor?

Another black eye for the busy God.

Which brings me to the next plot turn in this sermon. I got an email from a reader that said, yes, indeed, somewhere there are people being paid to leave comments on blogs by just sitting and typing in captchas, thus bypassing the spam protections. I already knew there are people in China who are paid to play online games for online money that is then sold on Ebay. This is terrible! Can you imagine sitting for long hours, staring at words you can hardly read, and duplicating the blurry captchas just to link to pornography sites?

We all know how bad it is in the Third World, but sometimes, something comes along that just puts the exclamation point on it. For me it's the $7.99 Christian jeans at Forever 21 and the indecipherable comment with pornography links in my comment list. We have one percenters who control most of the wealthy in this nation. Even so, for much of the rest of the world, we are the one percent, even if we struggle financially.

I feel horrible for Flower Lace Bra (see below). I shouldn't have made light of it. I picture some kid sitting in a hovel, cranking out captchas, perhaps being told that it will improve his or her English in hopes of a better job. Probably not even being told that. Just a few pennies to keep some rice in the bowl.

At least I have the grace not to slap a religious verse on this glaring act of inhumanity. But that's not saying much.

Good and Faithful Servant

O dear Goddesses, Freya and Bast, please guard and care for the spirit of my Alpha, sent to You on Thursday, February 21 at 7:30 p.m.

Alpha was a good and faithful servant. I hope to find her in the Summerlands, waiting for me. And if death is all there is, then she and I will be united in that, some day.

Alpha Johnson, 1996-2013

Estate Sale Dream

Do you like estate sales? I know some people just love them. They're economical, and the stuff is usually better than yard sale quality, and the prices are right. Me, I just can't get around the fact that I'm buying some dead person's belongings, from the house that person lived in.

Yeah! Go figure! A buzzard-lover like me, skeeved about picking the carcass of a dead person's house! Oh well, la di dah, I never claimed to be logical.

A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues who haunts estate sales told me that there was an estate sale the following weekend in Ocean County. "The ad says there's lots of Wiccan stuff there," she told me. "I thought of you. You might want to go check it out."

Say what?

Now I'm not only buying a dead person's stuff, I'm buying a dead person's religious stuff. No way, no how, not ever! Please feel free to differ, but I could never incorporate into my praise and worship some item that belonged to someone else before me, unless that person gave it to me specifically to use, with his or her blessing.

Estate sales make me sad. It's just how I roll. No free advice from me this time -- you do it your way.

It's no wonder then, that I have been in the pit of depression since early Friday morning, when I dreamed that I was attending an estate sale at my grandparents' farm on Polish Mountain. It was a pretty vivid dream. The new owner of the house had already begun renovations, and scattered about the construction debris was my grandparents' furniture, my grandmother's jewelry, knick knacks (she loved them), and clothing. Spare was in the dream with me, and she and I were just hugging and crying.

When I woke up, I cried. Maybe twice in my life a dream has made me cry.

When I was 20, I was planning to write a great, meaningful, popular novel that would earn me enough to purchase the property and live blissfully in it all my days. When I was 40, buying the farm looked like a bigger hurdle, since I had a mortgage and kids to educate ... but it still could happen. I was still working on that novel, and it still looked good to me.

When I was 52, the novel had been rejected by a dozen agents and editors. I started a new, low-paying job for which I am completely unsuited. There's not enough money for anything. I face growing old in a career that shows no mercy to older workers. You'd think I could put a positive spin on this job, but I can't. It's difficult and thankless. My salary keeps going down. The expectations keep increasing. And the farm is sold. Sold to a local man who bought it for his 18-year-old son. The kid's name is on the mailbox.

Langston Hughes was absolutely correct. What you're looking at when you see me is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

Anyone have a splint?

The Ancestors Are Sad

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" The veil is growing thinner, and the spirits of our ancestors are seeking us as the year comes to an end. This year I am feeling the sad.

The other night I had a very vivid dream in which my father and I were descending the slope from the car park at our farm on Polish Mountain. There was snow on the ground, and I looked down and saw critter prints in it. Dad was behind me; I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there.

When we got to the door of the farmhouse, I looked in through the screen porch, but I knew we couldn't go in. I said, "Oh, Dad. Our farm. Our farm." And I started to cry.

Which of course meant I woke up crying.

I hope Dad goes back to playing with the faeries and forgets about the fields where he played when he was on this side of the Veil. As for me, it is still winter time in my soul.

Last evening I was frying up some green tomatoes the way Grandma did it. I could feel her there with me. And once again a deep sadness stole into the room. Grandma loved her little farm house, her flower garden, her view of two states.

Well, the house and the view are still there. Can't keep a spirit away. Still, I wonder if she wants to go there and see strangers bustling about ... hunting ... four-wheeling ... smoking. The cigarettes would drive her berserk.

This Samhain I must come to terms with the fact that I moved out of Appalachia to seek my fortunes elsewhere, and thereby sundered my ties to the region. As the previous generations have moved to the other side, I can no longer feel the kinship ties to the mountains. My grandchildren will not know them at all.

A very sober Samhain awaits. Spare is at school in the city. Heir is grown. Decibel shed her cone of shame for four hours and promptly re-injured herself. Worst of all, my ancestors are sad. I'd almost rather the Gods be bored.