The Marvelous Miss Carleton

From a young age, Kat has been drawn to irreverent comedy. Starting at age seven, she binge-watched the entire series of “Futurama” multiple times. Next came “Phineas and Ferb,” “Bob’s Burgers,” “Uncle Grandpa,” and “Rick and Morty.” I didn’t love it when she moved on to Jim Gaffigan stand-up specials, not because he talks about adult themes—I mean, just because her former comedic obsessions were cartoons, they aren’t exactly full of child-like innocence—but because I worried Gaffigan’s incessant self-deprecating fat-guy jokes would influence Kat into believing the anti-fat bullshit fed to us from the billion dollar diet industry. Gaffigan’s funny, though, and I’ve found that the more I restrict Kat’s pop culture consumption, the more she sneaks. I’d rather she watch with me instead of behind my back so I can chime in with counter arguments. 

“He’s got great timing and what he is saying is funny, but I don’t like how he equates fatness with disease. If you dismiss the studies paid for by people who profit off the billion dollar diet industry, most scientific research shows that fatness does not necessarily lead to disease. Correlation is not the same as causation. Some thin people can be unhealthy just as some fat people can be unhealthy, so really—“

“—Mommy, I know. I know," she’d interrupt. "Can you please unpause it? I gotta leave for school in a minute. If I don’t see where he goes with this bit it’s gonna drive me crazy all day.”   

“Well, you don’t need that kind of distraction to ruin your school day, now do you?” I'd say. 

After plowing through Gaffigan’s life work, Kat moved on to other stand-up specials by Demetri Martin, Josh Johnson, and the like. Then, she discovered John Mulaney. She’s been on a Mulaney kick for a solid two years now. 

“Bojack Horseman” is a recent addition to Kat’s playlist. Instead of replacing her love of all-things-Mulaney, she’s learning that it’s possible to fangirl over multiple pop culture icons at a time. She’s evolved from being an irreverent comedy serial monogamist to being an irreverent comedy polygamist. 

In fact, now she’s toying with a third current comedy crush: “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” 

The other day, Kat was watching a YouTube video about fashion and décor trends from past decades. 

“I’m really getting into the whole 1950s-era look," she said. "Ya know, like, bullet bras and clean lines in furniture."

“I think that’s called mid-century modern,” I said.

“Well if it’s from the 50s, it’s not exactly modern,” Kat said.

“It was modern-ish a couple of decades ago when that term came about,” I said. 

Kat shrugged.

“Oh, I know! You’d like Mrs. Maisel,” I said.

“Who’s Mrs. Maisel?” Kat asked.

 “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel," I explained. "It’s a series on Prime. It’s about this upper-middle class Jewish housewife who befriends Lenny Bruce and hires this butch lesbian manager who helps her get gigs at crappy clubs in Greenwich Village that launch her stand-up career in the late 50s."

Before I finished my last sentence, Kat had turned on the Roku, queued up the first episode and plopped her butt next to me on the couch. Her feet were freezing under my blanket, but I didn’t complain for fear I’d scare her away. It’s nice when she wants to spend time with her old lady. Watching “Mom’s shows” is not exactly a 14-year-old’s first priority. I get it. When I was Kat’s age, my mom used to call me out of my bedroom.

 “Come watch ‘Moonlighting’ with me,” Mom would say after knocking on my door. 

“Mom. Ugh. I have homework,” I’d counter. Honestly, I was mostly likely just sitting in front of my mirror popping pimples while listening to The Smith’s “The Queen Is Dead” for the thousandth time. I always technically had homework. I just wasn’t technically good at doing it. I wonder why.

“Do it later! Come on, it’s starting!” Mom would say, shuffling off down the hall.

I always followed.

This sort of directness, this “Mom’s show” manipulation, doesn’t work with my daughter. At fourteen, she’s already smarter than me and has no problem advocating for her own alone-time needs. When I invite Kat out to the living room to watch most of the shows I like, she has no problem saying no. So, when she does sit next to me on the couch, I accept her, gleefully, icy feet and all. 

We’re now on season 1, episode 4 of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. Actually, I’m already on season 3, episode 5, but I’m re-watching the first season with the marvelous Miss Carleton. As I write this, I’m on the couch next to Kat as she sits in front of her school-issued MacBook doing school work. It’s all I can do not to queue up an episode of our show on the Roku and convince Kat that she can focus on school later. But I can wait. She'll be done with her school work in no time.

The good thing about remote learning during a pandemic is that there’s no such thing as homework anymore. I mean, all school work when you’re in online school is technically “home” work, but it’s not extraneous busy work you’re expected to keep up with after school, while Mom's knocking at your door, pleading with you to come watch TV with her. I’m luckier than my mom was. With streaming series on Prime, and online school, my kid and I aren’t committed to a one-hour block of prime time on network TV like my mom and I were back in the 80s. If I took time to finish my homework instead of heading out to the living room at the top of the hour, I'd miss the show. No replay. No rewind. Just have to wait til summer reruns. What a disappointment to my mother. It’s easier to parent patiently in the era of on-demand.

Oh, look! Kat closed her MacBook. It's showtime.

The scourge of humanity

I write this post while simultaneously overhearing my 14-year-old daughter's video for remote school health class about the ill effects of drinking alcohol, and reading a news report that our County Commissioners continue to allow bars to remain open during this escalating pandemic, even though our public schools are struggling to keep staffing levels optimal for both in-person and remote learning.

Our priorities are turned upside down. 

From this post:

New Johnson County health order draws mixed reactions | Coronavirus | kctv5.com

Part of the new order in Johnson County requires restaurants and bars to close at midnight instead of 2 a.m...

“I think it sounds like it’s an attempt to do something without really doing anything. To be honest,” Dr. Larson said.

“While I applaud the fact that something is being done, I think we need to go further,” Dr. Larson said. “A gathering of 49 is just as dangerous as a gathering of 51. Especially if it’s inside. So I think it’s an attempt to do something without angering the base of people who are adamant about not doing it.”

“I think that the medical community would be all in agreement that we need to do what we can to stop the spread of the disease. Obviously nobody wants to see an entire lockdown, but we also understand that we need to do what’s right, even if it’s hard,” he said.

If I were in charge, we would do what's right, even if it's hard. 

• We would close everything except essential services for our community as a whole.
• We would keep open schools, police, fire, and other essential public service departments, public libraries, gas stations, and grocery stores until we get control of this novel coronavirus. 
• Everyone else in the community would be furloughed and receive unemployment insurance. 
• If former bar, restaurant, and retail staff preferred to work instead of staying at home, they could be on a team directed by County Health that focuses on a coordinated home delivery system for food, medicine, and other essentials that would be provided to everyone in our community.
• Workers who are not on unemployment would receive the first batch of vaccine for free.
• Once we have more vaccine available, everyone would receive it for free. 
• Once we have eradicated the coronavirus, bars, restaurants, and retail stores could open again, and workers could get off of unemployment.

This puts the priority on education, basic needs, and the community as a whole.

Instead, our County Commissioners prioritize profit over people. They give in to adults who whine about the inconvenience of not being able to drink wine with their friends in a bar as scientists, parents, and educators soberly face reality. My daughter learns about the dangers of alcoholism in remote school at home, unable to socialize with her peers or experience high school life in-person, while selfish adults gather at bars to drink and socialize with their peers. The scourge of humanity is not the disease itself, but our inability to unite and fight against it.

I love you, whoever you voted for

Excellent analysis from Ari Melber, quoting Shakespeare and Tupac:

 

Trump is going, going, gone. Still, we're stuck with ourselves.

The most disturbing ah-ha moment in the clip above is when Melber points this out: when you walk into a room full of registered white voters, most of them voted for Donald Trump. Not in 2016, but in 2020. After all Trump has done to disenfranchise our BIPOC brothers and sisters during his four years in power, a majority of white people still chose hate over love.

White people: we can do better.

White people: now is the time.

White people: listen.

Now is the time for us to stop and listen to Black, Indigenous, and People of Color. We need to unlearn the biases and bigotry ingrained into us since birth as citizens of a country founded on the morally reprehensible ideas and actions of white supremacy. 

Now is the time to open our hearts and our minds, to accept the call to love our neighbors—ALL our neighbors—as we love ourselves. 

White people: if you struggle to love your BIPOC neighbors, start with yourself. A person who truly loves themself has no room for hatred of others. 

Despite my political beliefs, I love you, whoever you voted for. I have no room in my heart for hatred. Let’s listen and learn and grow, together. Love is an action verb.

The Pandemic Slide

I'm not a fan of standardized tests. At our 14-year-old Kat’s public school they are mandatory. Each year the teachers and administrators start freaking out and reminding parents to make sure their kids eat a good breakfast and get plenty of sleep the night before a Big Test.

This year everyone seemed to be especially anxious over the results. Due to the pandemic, students went home for Spring Break and never returned for in person learning. They skipped the spring Big Test, which was fine by me.

Kat has still not been back inside a physical classroom since March. She chose remote learning, which, as an introvert, she loves. She says it’s less distracting to be in a virtual classroom where most students have their mics muted so she can actually focus on what the teacher says instead of having to deal with a bunch of rowdy, chatty teens around her.

Not only did I not ensure that Kat got plenty of sleep the night before, but I also did not oversee her breakfast to ensure it had the proper balance of nutrients. I slept in. In fact, I’d forgotten it was Big Test day until nearly noon when Kat came out of her bedroom only long enough to shush her librarian mom. The stereotype of a shushing librarian is a fallacy, especially someone like me who works in the children’s department of a public library. I am always more apt to get shushed than to do any shushing myself. My family knows it. I am an extrovert living in a 935 square foot house with three introverts. Shushing happens. 

“Mom, could you please lower your voice? I’m taking my reading MAP test. I need silence.” 

Me, whisper-shouting as Kat turned to walk back to her bedroom, “Sorry!” 

Will, whisper-laughing at me, “Notice she said, ‘Mom be quiet’ not Dad.”

A bit later, Kat came out of her room for lunch.

“Sorry I disturbed your test. How did it go?” I said. 

“Oh, it’s OK. You didn’t know I was taking a MAP test.” Kat said. “I did great, though.”

“Oh, you already got your score?”

“Yep. It’s all automated so you get your score right away. I scored two points higher than last December on my RIT score, and my Lexile increased by ten points.” 

“Increased?” I said. “What happened to the ‘summer slide’ or, for that matter, the ‘spring-summer slide’? They should call it the pandemic slide,” I said.

When under stress, I try to pay as little attention to the outside world and just focus on what I have control over—namely, myself. It might sound selfish, but it’s the only way I can keep my anxiety from spiraling out of control. I have a natural inclination toward over-functioning as the great Dr. Harriet Lerner calls it.  If I don’t keep myself in check, I start worrying about everyone else and neglect myself. Then I get pissed off at everyone else I’ve been worrying about because how dare they not change the way I think they should, and look at all this time I’ve spent worrying about them and they don’t even have the decency to let me control them?!

Yeah, I’m a recovered hot mess. Well, recovering hot mess, I should say. It’s hard not to worry about my 14-year-old daughter and my husband and my mother-in-law who lives with us, and all my friends and family and community members during a fucking pandemic. But I do the best I can. 

Despite my best efforts to not pay attention to people and things I can’t control, friends keep inviting me to various social media groups where it seems the sole purpose is to rant about how shitty our school board members are and how shitty our county commissioners are and how shitty our other local elected officials are and WHY CAN’T MY KID PLAY FOOTBALL RIGHT NOW HE’S GONNA LOSE HIS SCHOLARSHIPS. I swear, groups like that stress me out even more than I stress myself out. I don’t need to focus on everyone else’s worries. I manufacture plenty on my own. 

However, like a train wreck, it’s hard to look away. I’ve noticed many parents are freaking out that their kids are going to succumb to not just a typical year’s “summer slide” where students’ standardized test scores drop over summer vacation, but that their kids are going to lose out on the quality education that comes with in person learning due to Governor Kelly’s state-wide stay-at-home orders, which began in full force last spring, but by now have petered out to, “Well, I wish you would stay-at-home, but since I’m a Democrat in a red state with a Republican-led state legislature, I’m not going to mandate anything and let each county decide how to handle this global pandemic.” Parents are freaking out that their kids got shitty, slapped together at the last minute virtual school in the spring and with the new academic year they were at first told everyone would start the school year in remote learning only and eventually parents could choose whether or not their student could go to a hybrid model of some in-person learning and some stay-at-home learning. They are worried that our school district will not remain competitive, which is another way of saying they worry our kids are going to test poorly and we’ll lose Federal funding for our public schools. 

It’s a bunch of crap. Whose idea was it to give funds to schools that test the best? If we’re going to use standardized tests to measure students’ success, shouldn’t funding go to the schools that have the worst test scores so they can hire more teachers and purchase more materials to help kids test better?

Also, who the hell are we competing against? The whole world is a shitshow right now. If our students have to all basically repeat a year once we get a vaccine and eradicate this current plague, so what? Won’t everybody basically need to repeat a year? Why can’t we just chill out, stay at home, and when it’s safe to venture out into the world again, have a do over year?

I was thinking about all of this when I realized that Kat had said something about her Lexile score. 

“What’s your Lexile now?”

“I just said. I don’t know. 15-something-something. Close to 1600,” Kat shrugged. 

“So pretty much still college level?” I smiled. This kid’s Big Test score has been at the college level since fifth or sixth grade. It’s something I want to feel proud about, but at the same time, since I think standardized tests are bullshit, it feels weird to gloat. 

“Yep,” Kat said.

“So how did you not succumb to the pandemic slide? I bring books home from the library all the time and I never see you pick them up,” I said. 

This is a fact that most librarian parents will acknowledge. When they’re little and love to sit in your lap, librarians’ kids squeal with joy when their parents bring books home for them. By the time they’re old enough to think sitting in your lap is gross, suddenly every book you think they’d like is lame.

“Mom, you say so yourself all the time. Nobody wants to be told what to read. I like to read what I like to read.” 

I patted her shoulder, “Yes, yes. You’ve got that right. Once someone tells me I should read a book I suddenly lose all interest. So, what have you been reading lately that’s keeping the gears in your brain well lubed?”

Kat looked at me like I was an idiot. You know, the way I looked at my mom when I was 14. “Well lubed? Gross, Mom.”

We both laughed. 

“You know what I mean,” I said. “What’s kept you from succumbing to the pandemic slide?”

“I dunno,” Kat said. “I’ve mostly been reading manga. And, I guess I have been reading a lot of Hamilton’s letters,” she said as if it were an afterthought.

“Alexander Hamilton’s letters? You mean, like, The Federalist Papers?”

Now don’t go thinking this has anything to do with my influence. The only reason I know that Hamilton is the author of most of The Federalist Papers is because Kat made me watch Hamilton with her on Disney+ as soon as it was released this summer.

“Yeah,” Kat said. “The Federalist Papers and, you know, just some of the letters he wrote to his family and friends. I found this website that has all of Hamilton’s letters you can read online. They’re fascinating. He has a real way with words.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I’m not worried about you.” 

“Finally,” Kat said and rolled her eyes.

Don’t be the kid who makes us all lose out on recess

You know the kid in school who wouldn’t listen to the teacher’s instructions and so the teacher would hold the entire class hostage inside the classroom, denying our precious recess time until the non-complying kid got back on task, basically punishing all the rule-followers in class? That’s how I feel about my fellow citizens who aren’t following CDC social distancing guidelines during the re-opening of the country. Remember, we are STILL in the midst of a pandemic with no vaccine and no cure. 

image source

I really want to take my kid to the caves in southern Missouri before she leaves home for college. I want to take her to San Francisco to see the sea lions and to have a cup of tea at Cafe Flore in the Castro district. I want to take her to New York City to explore the Museum of Natural History and the Met and to see a show on Broadway. I want to take her to DC to see the The National Museum of African American History and Culture and to peacefully protest outside the White House. I want to take her to Yellowstone National Park and to the Great Smokey Mountains. I want to take her to Chicago to ride the L train and to New Orleans to taste a beignet and listen to jazz. I want to take her to swim in the oceans and hike along the Appalachian Trail. I want to do all of these things before she goes off to college, but I am afraid to take her to the grocery store just down the street because a few reckless people can’t follow these simple directions from the CDC:

Social Distancing: Keep Your Distance to Slow the Spread

• Do not gather in groups.
• Stay out of crowded places and avoid mass gatherings.
• Limit close contact with others outside your household in indoor and outdoor spaces.
• Avoid gatherings of any size outside your household, such as a friend’s house, parks, restaurants, shops, or any other place. This advice applies to people of any age, including teens and younger adults. Children should not have in-person playdates while school is out.

Please, as our public spaces begin opening back up, listen to the advice of our nation’s infectious disease authority. The more you ignore them, the longer we wait for the reward we all deserve for the hard work we have done socially distancing ourselves these past few months. 

Read with your kids, especially when you don't know the words

Early today, on this Sunday morning after three days of grieving its loss, my faith in humanity has been restored. Not by a preacher man but by two little kids and their parents. It feels good to make a comeback in my belief that human beings are inherently good, that evil has not won, that love and compassion can transform my empty shell of doubt into a vessel full of hope. This must be how Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome felt when they greeted a resurrected Jesus outside the tomb.

Hallelujah! 

This restoration of my faith in humanity came from, in my experience, an historically unlikely place: local TV news. I prefer to keep abreast of current events from non-partisan media with strong journalistic integrity. Trustworthy media sources such as NPR and PBS Newshour. 

I've largely avoided watching local TV news in my adult life. My parents were local TV news junkies. My mom to check the weather, my dad to keep his finger on the pulse of the community. As a kid I thought the local TV news was boring, so I mostly ignored it even while it was blasting from our living room. As a teenager, local TV news caught my attention mostly in soundbites that I'd use to flame the eternal fire of arguments I had with my dad. By the time I was an adult my dad and I had cooled most of our conflict and I stopped paying attention to local TV news unless there was some kind of emergency happening. 

For the longest time my husband and I didn't even have a TV that would tune in the local news. At age forty-nine it fills me with extreme pride to brag to the fact that I have never once in my life bought a TV. I've owned lots of hand-me-down TVs over the years. For example, in 2009 when the FCC forced the switch from analog to digital, my mom didn't want to fool with getting a digital converter box, so she just bought a new TV that came equipped to broadcast digital signals. She gave us her "old" TV which was fine with us because it worked with DVDs, which is mainly what we used it for. This was back when my mom lived in Nebraska. She routinely called me to let me know it was going to rain that day so I'd better take an umbrella to work. I'd glance outside to see with my own eyes that it was already raining, and I'd get annoyed with Mom for treating me so childishly, but now that she's gone I miss her reminders, however unnecessary. I realize now it's not what you say but just the fact that you say something that matters most in maintaining a good relationship with our loved ones. 

I've been watching more local TV news lately for three reasons. 

1) My mother-in-law moved in with us. She like both of my parents before her, routinely watches the local TV news. 

2) We are in the middle of a global pandemic. Most of my favorite news sources focus on how COVID-19 is spreading throughout the world, and throughout the nation, but not specifically in my region. With a virus that spreads from close person-to-person contact, I find I feel less panicky when I'm able to mitigate my risk of transmission before heading out to pick up my anti-anxiety meds at the local pharmacy. During times of uncertainty, I want all the facts. Give it to me straight. Don't sugar coat it. Tell me what we're dealing with so I can make rational choices.

3) We live in the suburbs of Kansas City, right smack in the middle of a nation of Black Lives Matter activism. I want to see how these protests are panning out so I know which people in power in my community I need to send my complaints to if they continue propping up the racist status quo.

That's how I stumbled onto this faith-restoring piece from KCTV5: 

Kids in Lee’s Summit come together, ride against racism by Zoe Brown and Abby Dodge. Posted on Jun 5, 2020. Highlights:

Weslee Rhodes, 8, read a book about racism and told her mom the next time there was someone to stand up for, she wanted to help. That time came on May 25, 2020 in Minneapolis.

 “Our heart just breaks for that situation,” said Kimberly Wegleitner. “George Floyd deserved better. Black people deserve better.”
Weslee’s mom admits she has a tough time talking to her kids about race.

“I know it’s really important, but it’s hard for us to do that and we don’t necessarily know the words,” said Meg Rhodes, who also organized the event. “If I’m experiencing that, I’m wondering if a lot of other people are.” 

So, she connected with Thompson on Facebook to create a way for their community to celebrate diversity.

I am a children's librarian. In my profession, I regularly read to children during storytime. I also regularly answer reading recommendation requests from parents and caregivers who want to read with their children on a particular topic. Not only do I strongly advocate for the public library as a professional, the public library is in my blood. I grew up going to our local public library for storytime three times a week with my mom before I started kindergarten, and after that, at least once every three weeks to pick out books for both my parents and myself. Going to the local public library was as regular as going to the grocery store or the gas station. It was just some regular routine my parents and I did when I was growing up.

No big shock that I gravitated toward working in the public library. At age twenty-two, just barely a grownup myself, I got my job at the library where I still work today, twenty-seven years later.

I have spent my life surrounded by words. I understand their power. I understand the transformational power of books. I understand that books educate us about things we don't understand. For kids, who believe that their parents understand everything, it's unsettling when they discover their parents don't know the words to explain everything. As a parent, I understand how much of a failure I feel like when I don't know the words to answer my child's questions.

Today, there's a lot of things none of us understands about the world. To help alleviate my anxiety about all the unknowns, I turn to books. None of us knows the words to explain all the world's problems. But everyone knows some words that explain some things. And they can share those words with other people. And those people can add those words to the words they already know and share them with even more people.

No one likes to be caught not knowing the words. All of us can lean on each other to help us discover new words, which help form new ways of thinking, and that new way of thinking is how gradually, over time, the moral arc of the universe bends far enough that we start to see justice on the horizon. It gives us the hope we need to carry on.

I was raised by two imperfect parents. My guess is you were, too. 

I was raised by two parents who did the best they could with what they had. My guess is you were, too.

In my forty-nine years, I've encountered no one who cannot say the same.  

Words raised me up. I learned to speak my mind by arguing with my dad. I learned that pens win over swords from my artist mom. Both of my parents modeled for me a love of reading and patronizing the public library. They didn't always "know the words," when confronted by my challenging questions. But they knew where to find them. Knowing where to find the words inside books from the public library is the greatest gift my parents gave me. That I have the honor now to help patrons of our public library know where to find the words gives me courage. It makes me feel hopeful I can rise to the challenge amidst all the unknowns.

Why Did Daddy Have to Die to Change the World?

Like many, I dig a good underdog story. Righteous martyrs are the best. We're talking humans who have the moral fortitude to overcome their flaws, to lead by compassionate example. Imperfect pacifists like Gandhi (the pacifist sexual abuser,) Dr. King (the pacifist adulterer) and John Lennon (the pacifist wife beater.) Then there's the perfect, non-misogynist pacifist, the King of all Sacrificial Lambs, Jesus of Nazareth. Talk about sacrificing yourself for the greater good! 

But when I see how George Floyd’s murder has triggered his 6-year-old daughter to declare that, “Daddy changed the world,” it breaks my heart. 

I’m a children’s librarian. I read stories and sing silly songs with 6-year-olds. I know how heroic their daddies and mommies are in their eyes. It makes me want to barf when I hear this precious child say the words, “Daddy changed the world,” knowing full well that he didn’t have the luxury to change the world by living long enough to see her grow up and reach her full potential. George Floyd was not granted the time on this earth to reach his full potential as a daddy, as an American, as a human.

I’m sick of all the sacrificial lambs leading humanity's herd. I’m tired of the best and the brightest amongst us, those whose work truly honors “the least of these my brothers and sisters” being assassinated by the insatiably power-hungry wolves of the world. When will we begin to understand how absurd it is to expect the best of us to have to die to change the world? 

Prodigal Song

I got it bad for The Prodigal Son. Some women are attracted to good guys. Some chicks dig bad guys. I love bad-guys-turned-good.

The Prodigal Son by Pierre-Cecile Puvis de Chavannes

Listen, always, with this caveat: words, and their connotations, are relative. The gander ain't always turned on by the same things as the goose.

While many women in my peer-group (middle-age, middle-class, Middle-America-living white women) seem drawn to a spouse with a college degree, a professional job, a big savings account  coupled with little personal baggage, I am not. These are the good guys. The kind of guys you can rely on for material wealth and emotional stability.

These are not my type of guys.

I've always been attracted to the bad-guys-turned-good.

Who are the bad guys?

Some chicks gush over the baddest guys out there. These guys fuck the rules. These guys put the dick in unpredictability. Whether nerdy Sherlocks, jock-boys, or socks-on-cocks rock stars, these guys leave you crying out for more. These guys leave you, never ever bored.

These are not my type of guys.

I love the Prodigal Son. The son who leaves his family home, searching for riches and fame, breaking the hearts of endless bitches, then finally, fed up with the game, returning, begging forgiveness, full of repentance. Hopeful for a welcome arm around the shoulders, an extended hand, a kiss on the knee. It'll all be better now that you're home, son. Let's gather around the fire. Let's feast on the best food in our pantry. Let's drink our best wine. Let's sit together and sing, as a family, the song of the Prodigal Son.

That's my type of guy.

Or chick. I am a bleeding-heart sapiosexual, after all. My sexual desires skew intellect and emotional vulnerability no matter their sexual orientation or gender identity. I happened to marry a man, so often I'm mistaken for a cis-gender heterosexual. It awards me a position to speak freely of things my LGBTQ friends must hold inside. I am lucky for that. I am lucky in many ways. I'm lucky to have Will. I knew I'd married the right guy when Will burst into tears at the end of the movie, "The Fisher King."



The Prodigal Son gives me a major lady boner, for sure. I also gravitate toward prodigal sons and daughters as friends. Anyone who has ever been out into the wilderness and returned, admitted defeat, asked for help, and accepted grace into their heart is my friend.

Here are three such friends, Jay, Nancy, and Jacob Cantrell.

Our dear friends, The Cantrells. From left to right are husband and wife, Jay and Pastor Nancy, and their son JJ. If you're looking for some uplifting gospel music, check out the video I posted above.

Our family has been intertwined with the Cantrells for longer than I’ve been a member of the Carleton Clan. My husband Will has been jamming with JJ since they were about fourteen. Will's mom, Pam Davis Carleton, first met Jay and Nancy Cantrell in the 1990s when, along with her dad and mom, Bill and Sadie Davis, she became a member of HABOT (Heart of America Bluegrass and Old-Time Music,) a Kansas City-based organization of local musicians.

The first time I met Jay and Nancy was in the fall of 2003, if memory serves, when Will introduced us in the campground at the Walnut Valley Festival, in Winfield, KS. They were sitting around a campfire with Will’s mom and dad and a few other musician friends--guitars, mandolins, banjos and other acoustic stringed instruments in hand--going round the circle taking turns leading everyone in song. 

It was amazing. What a way to feel connected to our fellow humans, to gather in a circle and sing together.

I grew up in a much more bourgeois household. We did not go camping. We did not gather in song. My parents were both accountants. The most outdoorsy thing they ever did was go golfing. I was unaccustomed to singing in front of others, other than that time I wore a fancy dress with poofy sleeves and wobbled around in high heels at my sister Jenny’s wedding, or in a "Robbing Hood costume for our sexist sixth grade musical, It Takes a Wizard.

image source (my red arrow directed toward "Robbing Hood")

screenshot source (my highlights emphasizing sexism in yellow)

Singing was more about giving a performance and less about being part of a circle sing-along. 

I never learned how to play an instrument or read music. My mom and my older siblings taught me nursery rhymes, but once I “grew out of it” we stopped singing those songs. Thankfully, my mom was a quirky housewife during my formative years. I grew up listening to her play Queen’s A Night at the Opera on her portable eight-track player while cleaning the house, or the soundtrack to the film The Way We Were, featuring Barbra Streisand, while crafting on the couch. Every now and then she’d even break out Sonny Lester's How to Belly Dance for Your Husband album and practice in the living room. 

Image source

Needless to say, Mom’s eclectic taste in music influenced me greatly.

Mom actually met my dad because of music. Around 1966, when Mom first left her abusive first husband, at just 28-years old with four kids ages 3-8, she was looking for an outlet for her adult social needs. My paternal Aunt Donna, whom Mom knew through her first husband, who she as friends with Donna’s husband at the time, invited Mom to join her woman’s singing group called Sweet Adelines. From there, Aunt Donna and Mom became good friends. A couple years later, when Aunt Donna’s older brother, my dad, Glen Burton asked his sister if she knew of any single ladies he could date—he was going through a divorce from his own first wife—Aunt Donna suggested he call up Beverly, my mom. A year-and-a-half later, they married. A year after that, I was born.

https://sweetadelines.com/

My older siblings were all pop music fans. From the year I was born in 1970 to 1977 when we moved from St. Joe to Kansas City, I don’t think a day passed that I didn’t hear songs by artists such as Jim Croce and Elton John  playing on St. Joe’s Top-49 radio station, KKJO either on my big brothers’ and sisters’ bedroom radios or in my mom’s car. One of my earliest memories is standing in the back seat of Mom’s car (what seatbelts? This was the 70s) belting out my favorite song at the time, Helen Reddy’s “Delta Dawn.” 

My dad was a huge Big Band swing-era music fan. When I was a teen and he was nearing retirement, I’d wake up on Sunday mornings to the sounds of Dad playing his Glenn Miller and Count Basie albums while making biscuits and gravy. As a flexitarian, I’ve always hated biscuits and gravy. Why would you ruin a perfectly good biscuit by ladling greasy ground pig onto something that obviously pairs much better with butter and honey? I used to hate Sunday mornings as a teenager. Bleck. That smell.

But the sound? The rustling pots and pans, the sizzling sausage, the clarinets and sultry singers. I loved that part of Sunday mornings.

We weren't big church goers. We went to Wyatt Park Christian Church for a few years until we moved away when I was six. We joined Park Hill Presbyterian Church when I was twelve, but we moved again that same year and pretty much gave up physically going to church.

Off and on over the years, I've gone to church, all sorts of mostly protestant Christian denominations. Unity. Metropolitan Community Church. Bethel AME. Shawnee Mission Unitarian Universalist. Grace Covenant Presbyterian. The Foundry. Weston Community Church of the Nazarene.

This final church on the list is the latest one I've attended. I went a few weeks ago with my family--husband Will, daughter Kat, and mother-in-law Pam--right before our local health departments shut down all in-person gatherings of 10 or more people. Since then, I've been attending virtual church in my living room. I have to say, I like it better than church IRL. I don't have to wear a bra. Or pants. And I can watch anytime I feel like it because it's on YouTube.

Here's the latest sermon from Pastor Nancy. View it on your own time.

Here's a clip of The Cantrell's Sing-along on this Easter Sunday. The day of new beginnings.



I've written in the past about our friend JJ. You can read it here, if you like. In that post, I say, "JJ is no longer our friend." That is no longer the truth. Hallelujah, Jesus! Our friendship with JJ has been renewed. We have forgiven, and we have been forgiven.

JJ--like my husband, like myself--sings the prodigal songs. Prodigal songs make the best sing-alongs.

It's not my story to tell, but one of the things I love the most about JJ Cantrell is that he eschews his personal beliefs for the greater good. He might be a nonbeliever, but he's still at his mother and father's side when they call upon him to sing along to the Prodigal Song.

Now What? Rest In Peace, John Prine, Scott Carleton, and Pat Kerner

John Prine image source

“Prine’s stuff is pure Proustian existentialism. Midwestern mind trips to the nth degree.” --Bob Dylan, NYT obituary

"After graduating from high school, he worked for the Post Office...In and around his hometown, composing songs in his head. 'I always likened the mail route to a library with no books,' he wrote on his website. 'I passed the time each day making up these little ditties.'" --NYT obituary

“I guess what I always found funny was the human condition,” he told the British newspaper The Daily Telegraph in 2013. “There is a certain comedy and pathos to trouble and accidents.” --NYT obituary

“Sometimes, the best [songs] come together at the exact same time, and it takes about as long to write it as it does to sing it...They come along like a dream or something, and you just got to hurry up and respond to it, because if you mess around, the song is liable to pass you by.”  --NYT obituary

Rest in peace, John Prine.

Rest in peace, Scott Carleton.

Rest in peace, Patrick Kerner. 

I first heard about John Prine when I was my brother Pat’s caregiver. Caregiver's a loaded word. All my brother needed from me in the last few months of his life was to keep him comfy, which is a euphemism for making sure he had enough booze to remain loaded. That, and to keep him company so he wouldn't get too lonely. 

His fiancee, Sharon, had died of alcoholic-induced liver failure just a few weeks before Pat was diagnosed with the exact same thing, at age forty-nine. During the four months I cared for my brother, I turned forty. Too young for such shit. But we were used to it. We both grew up way too quick.

Eventually I could no longer care for him. I had a full-time job. I was the mom to a four-year-old. My husband saw how the emotional toll of caring for my brother was wearing me out. Pat went on hospice and moved in with our older brother, Jay, who cared for Pat until he died peacefully in his sleep on January 14, 2011. I got to help Pat smoke his last cigarette, a Camel unfiltered. 

Camel Unfiltered ad, 1974. Source.

Our last words to each other were this: 

"I love you."

When I was Pat's end-of-life primary caregiver, he'd occasionally ask me to drive him to his doctor’s appointments and pick him up some food, but mostly we just talked. My brother and I had a weird relationship. We were both, in our own way, the black sheep of Mom's flock of five lambs. Mom used to say, "You and Pat were both the best babies and the worst teenagers. Jay, Kitty, and Jenny were more of a handful when they were young, but relatively easy teenagers. But you and Pat were the opposite. So easy when you were young. Then you hit your teen years and watch out!" 

Pat was no saint. He hurt me badly when I was very little. He also, many more times than he ever hurt me, supported me in a way most people don't understand. We related to each other. I could talk to Pat easily about things I couldn't talk about with anyone else in our family without them trying to change the subject to something more pleasant. I don't blame them. It's hard to always wallow in shit.

I never could talk to Pat while he was alive about the horrible secret we kept. After he left this world, it suddenly became easy to talk to him about it. He's apologized. He's repented. I've forgiven him. He still loves me. I still love him.  

But I still don't like to talk about it with the rest of the world. I'll write about it. I'll even sing about it, even though I can't carry a tune. 

My husband Will and me, singing John Prine and Iris DeMint's song, "In Spite of Ourselves" at Pat's wake, July 2011 

That's the thing about art. It helps us express the unspeakable.

Pat was a raging alcoholic. A functional alcoholic, for the most part. He usually had a job and was only homeless a time or two. When he did have a job and a place to live, he often took in friends--he never knew a stranger--hit by hard times, because he'd been there. He understood. I never saw Pat shut the door on anyone asking for help.

Despite his good qualities, Pat was a drunk. He'd be the first to admit it. Sobriety sucks when you've lived a hard life like Pat did. He self-medicated, as many people who have survived trauma do. I'm not going to go into detail here about all the traumatic things Pat and I endured in childhood. I'll just say this. Hurt people hurt people. Our parents and grandparents and their parents and grandparents did the best they could under the circumstances. They fucked up a lot. They also, in their own way, loved us a lot. It's hard to understand. All I can do is learn from our foreparents' mistakes, growing myself into the best parent I can be under my own circumstances.

Pat once told me that he probably wouldn't have started drinking as much if pot was legal. He used to smoke--and sell--pot in the late Seventies/early Eighties, as a teenager into his early twenties. Then when he turned twenty-one, he found that it was cheaper, easier, and less criminal to buy booze and get a "real" job as a carpenter. His real jobs often required a drug test, so he had to quit smoking pot, but his bosses didn't care if he drank every evening, from the moment he clocked off til he passed out, and all day on the weekends.

It's the "what ifs" that get me. What if Pat hadn't suffered such early childhood trauma? What if our parents had taken him to the doctor for medication? A therapist to talk about his problems? What if our federal government had never put marijuana in the same category as heroin? What if Pat had survived and moved to Colorado? What if...What if...What iffff...fuck.

I can easily get stuck in the "what ifs." I feel better when I spend more time in the "now whats?"

Now what? We figure out a way to live this life we're given. Art, specifically writing and singing, helps me live my best life.

That's why I'm so sad, so furious, at the news that the world lost one of its best singer-songwriters yesterday. John Prine sang the songs we understood. Pat and Sharon. My husband and me. Even my mother-in-law and father-in-law, Pam and Scott Carleton. It's one of my greatest regrets that I never got a video recording of my in laws singing, "In Spite of Ourselves."  

Just as I learned about the song from my brother, Pat, my in laws learned about the song from me. They took the song and made it their own. They won first prize singing it at some festival I somehow didn't have time to attend. 

Scott and Pam Carleton, together in their home circa 2018.

I should have made the time. My dear father-in-law Scott died last August of lung cancer at the age of sixty-five. Way too young.

And now John Prine, the person who brought this song into our lives, has passed on. Way too young. It infuriates me. Our elders deserve better. John Prine's voice healed so many people, and yet, because of the inaction of too many of our leaders, he took his last breath alone. The lack of support, especially from our federal government, especially from President Trump himself is literally suffocating our national treasures.

I am sad.

I am furious.

I am alive.

Now what?

***

Update 4/9/20

I was wrong, thank God. 

View this post on Instagram

Our beloved John died yesterday evening at Vanderbilt Medical Center in Nashville TN. We have no words to describe the grief our family is experiencing at this time. John was the love of my life and adored by our sons Jody, Jack and Tommy, daughter in law Fanny, and by our grandchildren. John contracted Covid-19 and in spite of the incredible skill and care of his medical team at Vanderbilt he could not overcome the damage this virus inflicted on his body. I sat with John - who was deeply sedated- in the hours before he passed and will be forever grateful for that opportunity. My dearest wish is that people of all ages take this virus seriously and follow guidelines set by the CDC. We send our condolences and love to the thousands of other American families who are grieving the loss of loved ones at this time - and to so many other families across the world. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the outpouring of love we have received from family, friends, and fans all over the world. John will be so missed but he will continue to comfort us with his words and music and the gifts of kindness, humor and love he left for all of us to share. In lieu of flowers or gifts at this time we would ask that a donation be made to one of the following non profits: thistlefarms.org roomintheinn.org nashvillerescuemission.org

A post shared by Fiona💚 (@fprine) on Apr 8, 2020 at 8:04am PDT

Our dear John Prine did not die alone. I'm still furious he's gone, but it helps me in my grieving to know that at the very least he got to be with his wife at the end. So many other of our brothers and sisters who succumb to the virus die alone. I suspect that privilege protected Mr. Prine. We shouldn't have to be award-winning singer-songwriters to be at an advantage at the end of our lives. Amateur singers and everyday people should not die suffocating in silence. 

I'm grateful to the hospital staff that allowed Prine's wife to sit with him in his final hours. Maybe it wasn't privilege, but the fact that Fiona Prine had already been stricken by the virus, built up antibodies, and probably is now immune to it. I don't know. It's just speculation on my part. Whatever the reason, it's but one small silver lining on a fucking apocalyptic storm cloud.

Ritalin

About six months ago my primary care doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist for a mental health checkup. I was first diagnosed with depression in 1982 and last diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder in 2011. I’ve been on Zoloft for coming on 25 years. It’s helped tremendously, but with all the stress and grief my family has been going through in the last two years, I’ve been struggling. 

Part of my problem is time-management, something I’ve sucked at my whole life. I over-focus on projects that most adults know to put on the back burner, and I under-focus on daily tasks that most people know are important —you know, dishes, laundry, following my doctor’s advice to get a psychiatric checkup. And then, when I realize I’ve ignored things that are important to other people, I succumb to an anxiety spiral where I worry that I’ve let everyone down and my brain starts overthinking and beating itself up.

Anyhoo, I finally saw a psychiatrist yesterday. I didn’t like the last psychiatrist I saw for many reasons but mostly because when he found out I’m a librarian he shared with me his love of Ayn Rand. *shudder*

I like this new shrink. She was very thorough. We spent a full 60 minutes talking about my history and current symptoms. She validated my feelings and made me feel exceptionally not-crazy. She complimented me on how well I’ve been managing my life considering all the major stressors. 

She wants me to continue taking Zoloft since it does a good job of treating my PTSD. To help alleviate my depressive symptoms—mainly apathy and fatigue—and to hopefully help my time-management skills and focus, she’s prescribed Ritalin.  

We’ll see how it goes. I’ve had two doses so far, and I already feel better, but maybe that’s just a psychosomatic reaction to getting treatment from an educated person who validates my feelings and wants me to be my best. 

Here’s to trying new things and continuously improving. If the Ritalin doesn’t help, we’ll try something else.

Fans

It is human nature to want to belong. I feed off the frenzied energy of a crowd of fans, whether I’m seeing Johnny Marr at a little casino venue with about 100 other 49-year-olds, or in line to get my favorite author to sign their latest book, or at my 8th-grader’s choir performance. It feels good to get outside your head every once in a while, to look around and notice that others care about the same things you do. You are not alone. That’s a powerful feeling.

It’s wholesome. 

It makes me smile when I see a region of over a million citizens who can’t agree on politics, religion, or barbecue come together in spirit for this year’s Super Bowl contenders, The Kansas City Chiefs. Everybody from babies to grandmas are adorably dressed from head to toe in Chiefs merchandise. 

What I don’t like about living in Kansas City on the day the Chiefs are at the Super Bowl is the Tomahawk Chop. The racist tropes. The headdresses and the war paint fans wear in the stadium as they watch their team defeat the other side. Us vs Them. I like the unity that grows out of professional football. I don’t like the divisiveness. I do not like that our team name insults an entire group of people whose ancestors lived on this continent before mine did, before many of yours did, before the game of football was invented. It’s disrespectful and divisive and goes against our group dynamic. 

I am rooting for the Chiefs today. Even more so, I am rooting for people in our community to come together to respectfully cheer on our team in a way that doesn’t offend our neighbors of Native American heritage.