It's Time to Play No Trump

It’s been more than a year since the Hermit Philosopher last posted here. He’s been happily occupied playing bridge, serving as club manager, reading good books, and enjoying family —  the kinds of ordinary pleasures that make life worth the shuffle. He had hoped to stay at the card table and out of the topic of politics, but the game that’s being played in Washington feels like a nightmare at the bridge table. Like going down four, vulnerable, doubled and redoubled.

Bridge, like democracy, depends on a few simple principles. You play by agreed rules. You trust your partner. You respect your opponents. You abide by the contract you’ve made. When someone starts trumping reality or claiming tricks that aren’t theirs, the game collapses. It’s no longer a contest of skill — it’s chaos, it’s dangerous, and it’s immoral.

This is all part of the dangerous game that’s being played in the moral slum that is Trump’s Washington.

Sitting in his gilded Oval Office, Generalissimo Donaldo Trumpo’s reign of error and terror is spinning out of control. A malignant narcissist, he treats truth as an inconvenience and uses power as a toy. He fires officials who deliver unwelcome facts, investigates people he can’t fire, and sends troops into cities that haven’t asked for (and don’t need) federal help. Boasting that he can do anything he wants, he names national institutions after himself, kidnaps the president of a foreign country, and threatens to take over another country’s territory for reasons of “national security.” (Or is it lebensraum? Hard to tell.)

We’ve seen this movie before — in the 1930s and ‘40s in Germany and Spain, and more recently during Trump One. But this time the soundtrack is louder and cruder, and the message is more dangerous because the audience has grown numb.

I’d like to pass this hand — to shrug, to tune out, to tell myself that democracy can absorb three more years of outrage. But every player at the table has a responsibility to play by the rules. When one of them does not, silence isn’t patience; it’s complicity.

We can debate policies and personalities, but the deeper issue is character. No, not his. There’s no question about his character. The issue is ours. Do we still believe in facts? In truth? In institutions strong enough to outlast the egos that inhabit them? Because if we stop calling attention to rules infractions, soon the game belongs only to the cheat.

The Hermit Philosopher doesn’t claim to have answers, only the obligation to ask questions that matter:

• How far can power stretch before it snaps?
• Who speaks for truth when lies are more convenient?
• How many times can we watch someone revoke the social contract and break the rules of the game before we decide to walk away from the table entirely?

I’d rather be talking about card play and grand slams and the meaning of “Unusual 2 No Trump” (irony intended). But at this moment, the country feels like a game where the dealer keeps palming the ace of spades and too many players pretend not to notice. So, I’m laying down my hand and saying what needs to be said. Rules matter. Truth matters. And if we want the next deal to be fair, we’d better start defending these principles.

That said, the most important midterm election in many decades will take place in a few months. A new hand will be dealt. We might not control the cards, but we are responsible for how we play them. ♠

New Year's Greeting

 

As usual, I’m doing a New Year’s greeting in lieu of Christmas cards. This allows me to send best wishes to more people than would be possible otherwise. Those few (six in number) who sent me a real card will receive this letter in the U.S. Mail along with a personal note, of course.

About 10 weeks from now I’ll mark my third anniversary as a new and happy Vermonter. My apartment has views of the mountains to the east of Williston; my daughter and her family live just 5 minutes away; and the bridge club, grocery stores, restaurants, and other conveniences are all within a couple of miles. Yet with all that, one has only to go a couple miles farther and you’re in farm country with barns, silos, grazing cattle, and other hallmarks of a rural lifestyle.

As much as I like it here, I must admit that there is one thing I don’t care for: the time zone. In California I could watch the ball drop in Times Square at 9 PM; Monday Night Football came on at 5 o’clock; and other Eastern Time events were at an hour conducive to my early morning lifestyle. But the time zone issue is a mere inconvenience compared to the benefits of living near family in this beautiful, relaxed setting.  

Speaking of family, pictured here are Sarah, Steve and me (on the left). To the right are Sarah’s husband Romain Feuillette and my three grandkids Henry (the red head), Clover and Forrest. Steve and Henry recently moved from the Boston suburbs to Pelham, NY, for Steve’s new job in Manhattan. Romain is a software engineer with Global Foundries in nearby Essex Junction, VT. 

Scott was absent when the above photo was taken, but he too was with us for the holidays. He’s shown at left with Forrest and Clover in Sarah and Romain’s family room. The medal around his neck is an “Awesome Uncle” award the kids gave him. After a three-week visit, he returned to Oregon on January 5. Steve and Henry took the train back to Pelham to have New Year’s Eve with Jeff, the third member of their family, who had stayed home with Finn and Jackson, their two dogs.

I had a great time with the whole bunch, but I’m looking forward to things getting back to normal. And “normal” means reading; playing duplicate bridge 2 or 3 days a week; watching the occasional baseball, football, or hockey game on TV; and dinner or other family activities with the Feuillettes. 

My only travel last year was to Boston and Pelham a few times and one cross-country trip to Portland and Seattle. The Seattle visit included an “unveiling party” for the 10th edition of my textbook, which came out in March. I’m shown here at the party with my new coauthor, Sally Sanford (far right), and some of the others who contributed to research and editing. (The bats and baby were mere observers.) 

Speaking of reading, I finished 119 books this year – just a few short of last year’s total. Among my favorites were:

You might notice that a few of these titles were targeted for banning by narrow-minded prudes in some locales. I chose to read them for that very reason. To people who want to censor literature I say, “If you’re afraid that books will change someone’s thinking, you’re not afraid of books: you’re afraid of thinking.”

I close with my sincere best wishes for a healthy new year for you and for democracy too (meaning, of course, the repudiation of Cult 45).

Stuart

What's Your Answer?

 

The liquid is the world, and the fish is the United States. Is the glass half full or half empty? 

Optimists think the glass is half full and we will find ways to overcome the challenges we face. Pessimists think it’s half empty because the country and the future of all humanity are in grave jeopardy.

By the way, a third group (the sots at the local pub) would say that’s not even the right question. To them the right question is, “Are you going to finish that?”

The Hermit Philosopher sides with the pessimists because:

• The world's population stands at eight billion and is expected to be nearly eleven billion by the end of this century.
• We are quickly poisoning our environment and using up finite resources.
• We have created the means of our own destruction in the form of nuclear weapons, environmental pollution, and artificial “intelligence.”
• Millions of us deny scientific fact, believe unprovable conspiracy theories, and accept demonstrably false notions, such as that the 2020 election was “stolen” or that COVID vaccines are unsafe.
• Trust in democracy and the core institutions of government – the courts, voting systems, and laws that promote the general welfare – is at an all-time low.
• One of our major political parties is run by far-right crazies (think: Matt Gaetz, Lauren Boebert, and Marjorie Taylor Greene) who are riding a tsunami of ignorance and disinformation.
• That party’s leading candidate for the presidency is the leader of a dangerous cult and  an unprincipled, unstable, seditious menace who has corroded and corrupted American democracy.

If politicians and world leaders applied as much energy to solving the climate crisis as they do to getting reelected and consolidating their power, the outcome might be different. But the existential threats to democracy and the world at large are why the HP’s answer to the topic question is: “The glass is half full and leaking badly.” I’m glad I won’t be around to see the worst of it.

By the way, it seems to me that the answer to the question posed by the drunks at the bar is, “The drink is poison and yes, we’re going to finish it because we’re destroying democracy and the planet is doomed.” I guess that’s pessimistic too, huh‽

Have a nice day. If you can. ■

Milestones

 

This year marked the 25th anniversary of my 50th birthday, a milestone I’m happy to have reached. After all, I know a lot of people who never had the privilege of being this old.

And this past week was the golden anniversary of the day I became a father. For my oldest offspring turned 50 on December 1, and he and my other progeny have made me proud for half a century.

To celebrate, he hosted a dinner in the Bay Area for his siblings and a few friends. I attended in spirit with the following ode, read at the party by my son Steve.

Scott often toasts folks at parties in rhyme.

   His tributes are thoughtful. Majestic. Sublime. 

But tonight, it is he whom we celebrate.

   (I hope that my musings don't seem second rate.)

The first of December in seventy-two

Began the adventures of ... you know who.

Those adventures have taken this lad far and wide,   

   And I, as his father, have watched with great pride

As he led the school band, was Christ in a play.

   And continued to dazzle me day after day.

From Stanford to B-school and Germany too,  

  Australia, triathlons, climb Tetons ... it’s true!

Then orchestras called, as you may have heard.  

   In LA then Portland, that’s not so absurd,

His musical talent and love of the arts

   Have made him a natural to play these big parts.

The birth date we honor was some time ago.

I've counted the days, and oh my! Did you know?

It comes to a number … lots more than a few.

   It's eighteen thousand, plus two fifty-two.

But age is a number. Just that. Nothing more.

   I'd rather count blessings. Of these I am sure:   

He's always so loyal, as uncle or friend,

   As son or as brother on whom to depend.

Now I've said my piece. I relinquish the floor.      

   Oh, wait! There is just one thing more.

We must have a toast, after these fifty years.        

   May love and good fortune be yours Scott. Cheers!

I had fun writing that, and I’m told that it was well received. I’m looking forward to many other milestones yet to come. ■

 

Thankfulness

I venture to say that November is no one’s favorite month. It is the cold damp between autumn and the dead of winter. It is perhaps ironic, therefore, that November is the month when, on the fourth Thursday, we give thanks for the blessings we have.

The Hermit Philosopher is especially thankful this November. Thankful that he’s nearly over the infection that has plagued him for nearly three weeks. Thankful that his family is recovering from the same ailment. Thankful that he doesn’t live in Buffalo under six or more feet of snow.

But he’s most thankful right now that there’s a glimmer of hope for our democracy, that people see the danger posed by the GOP and its far-right allies, and that T***p and “Cult 45” seem to be on the wane.

The day after the 2016 election—that bleak November morning so long ago—one of my family members asked sorrowfully, “What has happened to our country?!” The question has plagued me for more than six years. There is yet no clear answer. The cancer of the far right, while shrinking, remains with us as a reminder that mendacity, ego, and power are a dangerous combination. That combination has led to acts of political violence (think: January 6 or the assault on Nancy Pelosi’s husband), blatant disregard for facts (climate change denial, e.g.), and a dangerous level of demagoguery and depravity in the “party of Lincoln.”

The danger seems to lie with a large number of Americans—mostly working-class whites—who have deep resentments and serious delusions. They are people who spend too much time watching Fox News and plunging down Internet rabbit holes. They follow narcissistic wannabe heroes (Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley, Marjorie Taylor Greene, etc.). They seem to have decided that a cult of personality matters more than commitment to knowledge, truth, and fair-minded democracy. They even disdain the value of a university education. (In 2019, 59% of Republicans felt colleges had a negative impact on society, according to the Pew Research Center.)

There are, however, some reasons to be optimistic. The courts seem able to head off voter intimidation and similar shenanigans. Early voting and large numbers of young voters bode well for future elections. Some recent “firsts” included election of two lesbian governors, a Black governor, and a record number of women. And finally, the GOP seems to be growing tired of their former president.

Thomas Hobbes once wrote: “Hell is the truth seen to late.” Let us be thankful that more Americans are beginning to see the truth in time. Let’s hope that Emile Zola was right to say, “Truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it.” And my favorite new slogan: "Fight Truth Decay!"

So, despite all there is to worry about, the Hermit Philosopher remains hopeful and thankful. Happy Thanksgiving from Vermont, y’all! ■

The Case for Cats

I've been a "Cat Person" ever since a stray followed me home one day when I was five or so. Since then, except for a few years while in law school I've always had at least one cat in my life. 

In the Atlantic Daily for today, October 4, I read a nice article  by another Cat Person, Katherine J. Wu, and I'll quote from it here:

I see many reasons to favor the feline. Part of it has to be their luxurious fur; their super-silent, bean-padded paws; their fluid-like flexibility. Their vertically contracting pupils, their scritchy-scratchy tongues, their pleasantly pointy ears. Their love for laser pointers, their fear of cucumbers, their affinity for boxes. I’m also probably lured in by cats’ mysterious, melodic purrs—a form of communication that most other animals can’t mimic and that humans struggle to parse. And I’m definitely gobsmacked by their ability to right themselves within a second or two of falling and so often survive, even when the plunge is many stories high.

If I’m being completely honest, maybe it’s the feline personality that’s my personal catnip. My cats are just as cuddly as any dog I’ve ever had—probably more. They’re affectionate and personable; they come running when we call; they greet us at the door. And every cat I’ve met has been such a distinct individual, such a character: bursting with strong opinions, clear-cut preferences, bizarre and memorable quirks. And those traits are steadfast. Whether they’re scared, happy, suspicious, or confused, Calvin and Hobbes [the author's cats] are always Calvin and Hobbes. I get that cats can sometimes be contrarian. I get that their outer shell can sometimes be tough to crack. But for me, that makes them all the more fascinating. Their trust and affection is hard-won. So when it’s earned, it feels that much more meaningful. 

 

That pretty well sums up my feelings. Thanks, Katherine! And thanks to my late feline friends Motorboat, Tiger, Sherman, Snowflake, Domino, Clara, and Sam and my current purr-fect love: WhoDat. ■

Best Books of 2022 (Thus Far)

The Hermit Philosopher apologizes for the delay, but has been busy with family activities, playing duplicate bridge, and writing the 10th edition of The Law of Healthcare Administration.

But he has managed to read 100 books already this year, a personal record, so he wants to share the names of a few favorites:

Nonfiction

• Nicole Hannah-Jones (ed)., The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story
• Todd L. Savitt, Race and Medicine in Nineteenth- and Early-Twentieth-Century America
• Paul Lombardo, Three Generations, No Imbeciles
• Edward Dolnic, The Writing of the Gods: The Race to Decode the Rosetta Stone
• Bill Browder, Red Notice: A True Story of High Finance, Murder, and One Man's Fight for Justice
• Joshual Kendall, The Forgotten Founding Father: Noah Webster's Obsession and the Creation of an American Culture
• Isabel Wilkerson, Caste: The Origins of our Discontent

Historical Fiction

• Martha Hall Kelly, Lilac Girls, Lost Roses, and Sunflower Sisters – based on true stories, the trilogy follows three generations of women of the Farriday family during the US Civil War, WWI, and WWII
• Emma Donaghue, The Pull of the Stars

Fiction

• Ann Patchett, The Dutch House
• Gilly Macmillan, To Tell You the Truth
• Mary Stewart, Thornyhold

If you have some you recommend, please let me know. ■

Reflections on The Good Place

 

Almost two years ago – January 30, 2020 to be precise – the 53rd and final episode of The Good Place aired on NBC. I have since watched all four seasons of this fantasy comedy on Netflix, and I just watched the final episode again. I don’t think I’ve ever been as enamored of a TV show.

For those who don’t know, the plot involves Eleanor Shellstrop (Kristin Bell), a woman welcomed after her death to the “Good Place,” a highly selective Heaven-like utopia designed and run by Michael (Ted Danson), a non-human afterlife "architect." To be chosen for the Good Place is supposedly a reward for a righteous life, but Eleanor and her three human companions are actually in an experimental “Bad Place.” They were chosen by Michael to torture each other emotionally and psychologically for eternity.

Eleanor thinks she’s in heaven, however, and she knows that she doesn’t deserve to be, so she tries to hide her morally imperfect past and become a better, more ethical person. She fails at this miserably, as do the other humans, but along the way they grow to understand what’s going on, and in the process they lay out a moral vision for us that’s quite sophisticated and deeply informed by principles of philosophy. It’s a vision that puts learning and trying to do good front and center, and it’s based in large part on T.M. Scanlon’s What We Owe to Each Other.

In the final episode, the four companions get to experience the real Good Place, and they find it boring. They decide that an endless afterlife, even an eternity of happiness, would lead to intellectual stagnation and loss of meaning. It’s too much of a good thing. As one of them says, it’s so perfect you become a “glassy-eyed mush person.”

They conclude that uncertainty is what makes life special, so Michael adds an exit door from Paradise to the unknown. If they leave through that door, they become like “a wave returning to the ocean,” as Chidi, one of the human characters explains:

Picture a wave. In the Ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And its there. And you can see it. You know what it is: it's a wave. 

And then it crashes on the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be for a little while. You know, it's one conception of death for Buddhists: the wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be. 

I love that metaphor. It’s a peaceful and comforting vision of the end of life. A gentle reminder that we’re all open parentheticals, waiting for the close parenthesis to come. At that point we will dissolve back into the fabric of the universe and will be at peace.

As usual, Shakespeare said it best: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and we round our little life with a sleep.” ■

At the exit door

  

Eleanor (Kristin Bell), Chidi (William Jackson Harper),
Michael (Ted Danson), and Janet (D'Arcy Carden)

One of Eleanor's favorite obscenities,
along with "holy forking shirtballs!" 

Running Off at the Keyboard

The Hermit Philosopher sometimes needs to write like a cow needs to give milk. Here are some thoughts on a two totally unrelated topics: ambulances and ignorance.

Ambulances. I’m working on the 10th edition of my textbook and decided to include reference to the Emergency Medical Systems Act of 1973. In discussing this with a colleague, I learned that neither she (age about 55) nor her law students (mostly in their 20s) knew that the EMS system we now take for granted — the one with ambulances and EMTs at every firehouse and most hospitals — is a relatively new phenomenon.

Her students had watched a video about desegregation of hospitals in the early '60s, and they found it poignant that years ago some poor, Black patients had died while being transported to hospitals in hearses. In hearses, of all things! Egad!

I pointed out, however, that prior to creation of the EMS system about 50 years ago, it was common for patients -- rich or poor -- to be transported in hearses. After all, what other vehicle could comfortably carry a gurney or cot? A station wagon is not big enough. A pickup, large van, police “paddy wagon,” or flatbed truck might do, but not as comfortably. Thus, hearses were often used when the patient was unconscious, severely injured, etc., and of course some of them would die in route, regardless of their ethnicity or socioeconomic status.

This reminded me of an incident involving my own grandfather. Sometime in the early ‘60s he passed out at home. My father, being a physician, called for patient transport, and the person he called was John C., a family friend who happened to run a local funeral home. John arrived with his hearse and a driver, loaded Grandpa into the back, and took off for Dad's hospital. During the 10 minutes or so that it took to get there, Grandpa woke up, looked at Mr. C. (whom he knew), and said something like "You're early John. I'm still alive." 😂

Ignorance. The level of ignorance and outright imbecility in this country is frightening. For example:

● More than 70 million US citizens voted for a misogynistic, xenophobic liar in the 2020 presidential election, and many of them buy into his Big Lie about voter fraud despite there being no evidence supporting that claim. (Note: the audit of election results in Arizona resulted in an increase in Joe Biden’s victory margin there.)

● Millions of people refuse to be vaccinated, despite overwhelming evidence that the vaccines are safe and effective. (Remember: vaccines are why smallpox has been eliminated and we don’t see people in iron lungs anymore due to polio.)

● Untold tens of thousands get their “news” from talk radio, certain TV channels, and social media. These Weapons of Mass Distraction (the new “WMDs”) are cesspools of disinformation and conspiracy theories. 

 ● 10 percent of Americans question the existence of climate change and/or believe that if it is happening, it is not the result of human action. Another 10 percent (including the loser of the 2020 election) believe climate change is a conspiracy or hoax. (N.B.: 97% of climate scientists believe the climate is changing and humans are the main cause.) 

In conclusion. By one estimate, there are at least 100 billion galaxies in the universe and each one contains roughly 100 billion stars. That means there are at least 100 sextillion — 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 — stars in the universe. If only one in a quintillion of those stars has earth-like conditions, then perhaps there are a hundred thousand planets out there in the vastness of space that might have developed intelligent life! It’s too bad ours isn’t one of them. ■

News Flash: There's Too Much "News"

"Laws are like sausages; it is better not to see them being made." --Otto von Bismarck 

I recall this insight from the founder of the German Empire every time I open a newspaper, check my email, or turn on the TV or radio. With apologies to my journalist friends, I am tired of hearing the so-called "news" about politics. There's too much of it. After a while it's just noise. 

Before the days of the 24-hour news cycle, we got a summary each evening from the likes of Walter Cronkite, Ted Koppel, or Peter Jennings and a somewhat more detailed account in the next morning's paper. 

But now we have scenes like these, with reporters crowding around politicians for juicy soundbites about "up to the minute" developments. 

 

Here's a news flash for the media: you're being used.  I understand that you're just doing your job and that “an informed citizenry is the bulwark of a democracy”—thank you, Thomas Jefferson—but how well informed are we, really?

Politicians seldom contribute substance in these impromptu sessions. They just spout “talking points” and try to say things that will gain them votes in the next election. They should be in their offices or in a committee session working to do what we elected them to do: solve problems.

And here’s a news flash for the politicians: you’re being used too. Your soundbites will help publishers sell newspapers and airtime and gain readers/listeners. Then social media (aka “weapons of mass distraction”) will take your soundbites, distort them, and use them for their own disingenuous purposes. Which will fire up the crazies of the world, distract us from the truth, and create more soundbites. The news cycle is a vicious circle.

Finally, here’s a news flash for everyone: we’re all being used if we let ourselves get sucked into this vortex. We mistake posturing for importance. By way of contrast, consider what happens in labor negotiations. When the parties get serious, they call for a news blackout, roll up their sleeves, and get down to work.  

The Hermit Philosopher recommends this approach for people on Capitol Hill. 

Our Cross-Country Adventure

By WhoDat the Wonder Cat

My driver (Stuart Showalter) and I said goodbye to San Diego around noon on Friday, March 12, to begin our journey across the Southwest to Vermont via Atlanta and Reading, PA. I was concerned about the trip at first, but after voicing my discomfort for a few miles I realized that it was better if I let Stuart concentrate on driving, so I lay quietly in the back of the SUV most of the way after that.

Three hours down I-8 we crossed into Arizona and spent the night in Gila Bend. It was my first night ever in a hotel room, and I found that I could hide in a four-inch-wide tunnel between the box spring and the wall. I was soon coaxed out of there and the opening was blocked by pillows, but hide and seek became a game at each stop along the way. (You can see the pillow circled in the photo below.)

After exploring Phoenix the next day we checked into another hotel to await the arrival of our navigator, Cliff Mills, who was flying in from Seattle. We met his plane early Sunday afternoon and set off along I-10 for Las Cruces, NM. On the way, Stuart and Cliff were amused by the many billboards advertising fireworks, casinos, truck stops, etc., and one weather-beaten sign, in particular, caught their attention.

It was for a now-defunct local eatery known as  “BURGER TIME” that apparently served not only the iconic American ground beef sandwich but donuts too. The “e” in “Time” was missing on the billboard, so for the rest of the trip these two humans laughed about “Burger Tim” and his donuts. 

We spent Monday night in Fort Worth, TX, crossed into Louisiana on Tuesday, and arrived that evening in Jackson, MS. Until then Stuart and Cliff had prevented me from hiding in our various hotel rooms, but the misnamed “Quality Inn” motel in Jackson was the site of my most creative escapade.

After my companions went out to dinner, I found a small tear in the cloth underbelly of one of the box springs, and I climbed inside. When they returned, they couldn’t find me. I heard them calling my name, but  I didn’t reveal myself. They searched all over, even looking under the box spring on each bed. They should have noticed the bulge I created in the cloth, of course, but they didn’t. They thought I had sneaked out the door unnoticed when they left for dinner. After all, how many places are there to hide in a hotel room?

Stuart searched outside and asked the front desk clerk and a maid if they’d seen a missing cat, all to no avail. After about 30 minutes, with Stuart feeling heartsick over my apparent demise, I decided to reappear, much to his delight and relief. I was so proud of myself for this deception!

The next morning we drove through a horrible thunderstorm to the Birmingham, AL, airport and left Cliff to catch his return flight to Seattle. We later learned later that there had been tornadoes behind us in the storm and that Cliff’s flight had been canceled. He didn’t get home for two more days, but Stuart and I drove blissfully on to my “Aunt” Lynn’s house in Roswell, GA, where we stayed for a few days.

Upon leaving Georgia on the 21st we drove 13 hours to “Aunt” Susie’s home near Reading, PA. On the 25th she signed on as navigator, and the three of us then completed the journey: through upper New York State, crossing into Vermont south of Lake George, and on to the Burlington area. All told, we traveled 3,496 miles in 13 days, and I was pretty calm the whole way. Stuart nicknamed me the Wonder Cat for my ability to endure traveling with a minimum of complaint while providing amusement along the way.

We are now settled in our new apartment at 236 Zephyr Rd. #201, Williston, VT 05495. It’s a mere 0.8 miles as the crow flies from Sarah’s house, and she and her family get together with us frequently. It should be noted, however, that when Clover (age 6) and Forrest (age 2.75) come over I usually reprise my disappearing act and end up under the bed.

From what Stuart tells me, Vermont is a friendly, laid-back place and he likes it here. I, too, have grown fond of it. After all, his apartment is bigger than his San Diego condo, so it has more places to hide. LOL

Goodbye San Diego

As the Hermit Philosopher prepares to move away, he wants to reminisce on his years spent in Southern California.

When he moved here in early 2012, two of the HP’s offspring were California residents: Scott in LA and Sarah in San Francisco. The former was an easy train ride away, and the Bay Area was a short flight. Since then, Sarah has grown a family and moved three thousand miles to Williston, VT, near Burlington (photo). Steve, who formerly lived in Tarrytown, NY, also has a family and now lives in a suburb of Boston.

Thus today the family comprises nine people, counting the two spouses and three grandkids, and seven of them are already in New England. There is only so much time to be together, so the HP will soon leave Cali.

I’ve loved the San Diego area for years. During my Navy tour here (’74 to ’76) we had two young sons and found a seemingly endless list of ways to enjoy the perfect weather, the beaches, the world-famous San Diego Zoo, Sea World, Disneyland, scores of golf courses, etc. etc. We even took in the Rose Parade in Pasadena one year, and I was twice a marshal in what was then known as the San Diego Open, a PGA event held on the famous Torrey Pines Golf Course.

But I no longer play golf. I don’t go to the beaches. I don’t visit touristy venues. For recreation I read, write, watch sports on TV, and play duplicate bridge either in person or online during the pandemic. I can do these things whether it’s warm and sunny or 5° and snowing.

Yes, it’s true that for years I said, “If I never see snow again it will be too soon.” Well, too soon has come. In mid-March I’ll head east on a 3,000-mile car trip (SUV, no motor home as originally planned) across the Southwest then to Atlanta, Pennsylvania, and finally the Green Mountain State.

The good things California has to offer will be missed: the great weather, the relaxed lifestyle, and my friends and neighbors. But I won’t miss the potential for drought, wildfires, and earthquakes. I’ve felt four or five mild tremors in the last nine years. They originated way out in the desert on a branch of the San Andreas fault and caused no damage, but they were reminders of what will happen somewhere nearby one of these days. 

As the state song says, “I love you, California, you’re the greatest state of all.” But Vermont has a song too. It begins: “These green hills and silver waters are my home.” That will soon be the case for the Hermit Philosopher, who will post next from the other side of the continent. ■

Change. The eternal constant. I was thinking about this recently when two of my offspring were contemplating relocation. My Boston-area son is buying a new house and my daughter's husband is getting transferred to Burlington, VT, the US headquarters of his company. As their plans materialized, I realized it was time for a change in my life too. I love San Diego, but there are other places to go and good reasons to explore them. So, here's the plan . . .

I will sell my condo in the spring, buy a motor home, and drive across the country with my cats and a friend. I'll drop the friend off at his place in Baton Rouge, visit my Atlanta and Pennsylvania sisters along the way, and settle in beautiful Burlington on the shores of Lake Champlain.

Like most "correct" decisions, this one practically made itself. I’ll be near two of my offspring and all three grandkids. But it did cause me to reflect on other milestone moments in my life, all of which led to the following thoughts.

Leaving one's home or job is like coming to the end of a good book: you're glad to have been there and sorry it has to end. Although you look forward to the next one, there's some anxiety because you're not sure it will be as good as the last. The German word for this uneasiness is Schwellenangst — the fear of crossing a threshold to embark on something new. Considering the number of places I've lived (21 at last count), I've crossed that threshold many times and there was some Schwellenangst at each one. 

The most severe symptoms came when I considered leaving the Navy to seek civilian employment. I was quitting a tenured position in the "regular Navy" (not USNR) that guaranteed me at least a 20-year career and a retirement package that would include a monthly paycheck and healthcare coverage for me and my dependents. It was an anxiety-ridden moment. But after exploring all the options, when the decision felt right, Sue and I laid the uneasiness aside and treated the move as an adventure, an occasion for optimism and hope. 

I believe each of us is prepared to cross our personal threshold to grasp the opportunities that lie beyond. As my wonderful Uncle Fred says, "Ever onward!" 

Love to you all, and I'll see you on the other side of the threshold, Schwellenangst be damned! ■

From: Hermit Philosopher

To:       Year 2020

Subj:    You Suck!

Dear 2020:

 

First of all, please note that I’m typing this with just my middle fingers, because that’s how I feel about you.

 

You began okay, I guess, but in March you started to turn sour and now you’re a total shit show. We have wildfires throughout the West, flooding in the South, a pandemic of historic proportions, protests in the streets over social justice, school and business closures, high unemployment, and an economic recession – all of which is exacerbated by there being a mendacious fool in the White House whose only aim is to get himself reelected and thus feed his galactic ego. Until two days ago I didn’t think things could get much worse.

 

Then Justice Ginsberg died.

 

Her death threatens to make a shambles of an already contentious national election. The Orange Genius – who is not doing real well in the polls – is pushing to have a nominee confirmed quickly, and his toady, Senate majority leader Mitch McConnell, agrees with him. So does another toady, Sen. Lindsey Graham, who pledged his support for Trump in “any effort to move forward regarding the [Supreme Court] vacancy.”

 

Oh the hypocrisy! This is the same Mitch McConnell who blocked President Obama’s nomination of Merrick Garland a full eight months before the 2016 election. And it’s the same Lindsey Graham who wanted to allow a vote on that nomination. He said at the time, “I want you to use my words against me. If there’s a Republican president in 2016 and a vacancy occurs in the last year of the first term, you can say Lindsey Graham said let’s let the next president, whoever it might be, make that nomination.”

[Fact check: CSPAN, March 10, 2016, https://twitter.com/cspan/status/1307172635298725888?s=20.]

 

So, 2020, see how screwed up you are? Fires. Flooding. Pestilence. Mendacity. Hypocrisy. What’s next, locusts? I can hardly wait for you to be over. I’m going to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve not so much to ring in the new year but to make sure you leave!

 

More on this Dystopian Year

 

A friend sent me a long and thoughtful email in response to my June 3 post about social unrest and the concept of “white privilege.” His comments prompt me to expound a little more.

The email started by citing a city councilwoman in Minneapolis—a supporter of “defunding” the police—who said that to expect a police response to a home burglary is an example of white privilege. I’m not sure what she meant, and I suspect she wishes she’d given a more nuanced answer, but the example got me thinking more about what white privilege does mean and how the term can be understood in various ways. 

My friend finds the term white privilege offensive. I don’t. To me, it is shorthand for the undeniable advantages that I have in society merely because of the color of my skin. It’s as though at birth I was given an invisible packet of permission slips that non-whites are not given.

For example, in my packet I have a pass to stroll through my upscale neighborhood at night without fear that the residents will look at me with suspicion. But if a young Black man were to take the same walk, the first thought that would go through my neighbors’ minds (and mine too, I admit) would be to wonder, “What’s he up to?”

As another example: in a comedy routine 25 years ago Chris Rock said: “There ain’t a white man in this room that’d trade places with me … and I’m rich! That’s how good it is to be white.” (His routine is on YouTube, and the comment can be heard beginning at about 2:00 of the clip.)

These unconscious benefits that we have as members of the majority in this predominantly White society are what “white privilege” means to me. The term has been around academic circles for decades but has only recently been brought into the mainstream through social media, the BLM campaign, etc. And it clearly has provoked defensiveness and negative responses from many.

That’s the problem with shorthand expressions: they mean different things to different people. But we can’t always use 200 or so words (as I just did above) to define what we mean. There has to be some term to capture the thought. My friend suggested one in his email: “air of entitlement.” I may start to use that phrase.

My friend also finds some of the language surrounding the Black Live Matter movement to be problematic. He wonders why responding, “All lives matter” is inappropriate. I think the problem with saying “all lives matter” is that it dilutes the emphasis on race. People weren’t saying “all lives matter” before the BLM movement began, so saying it now is a bit of a putdown.

Consider this: after the Boston marathon bombing, which killed three people and injured hundreds of others, we kept hearing “Boston Strong.” Suppose someone had said “Yeah, but thousands died in the 9/11 bombings, so New York Strong too.” I think the people of Boston would have felt that the importance of healing Boston had been minimized.

And if after 9/11 someone had said “Yea, but tens of thousands died in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,” the people of New York would likewise have been right to feel diminished.

One author I read about likens it to a wife asking her husband if she's pretty and the husband responding, "All women are pretty." That probably wouldn’t go over too well, right?

Returning to the Minneapolis city councilwoman’s issue, “Defund the Police” is another awkward slogan. The people who use that expression can’t seriously mean to abolish policing entirely. As I said in my August 6 post, without some mechanism to enforce societal standards, life would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.” What the “Defund” slogan means instead, I think, is that some of the police budget should be reallocated to agencies better suited to deal with particular situations.

I believe it’s a fact that most calls for the police involve nonviolent encounters which might be better handled by different departments. They concern issues of mental health, addiction, and homelessness, for example. But people reflexively call the police emergency number to report these situations.

I did it myself once. About 2:30 one morning I woke up to the sound of a homeless woman half a block away shouting F-bombs. (I knew she was homeless and a little nuts because I’d seen her around the neighborhood before). Not knowing the number for social services, and doubting that they would have responded timely had I even known it, I called 9-1-1. Two patrol cars arrived within three or four minutes, and the officers were able to defuse the situation and send her on her way.

I went out to thank them when she had left the scene. They said I had done the right thing to call but also implied that it really wasn’t their responsibility; it was a mental health issue. Since the woman didn’t appear to be a danger to herself or others, there was nothing they could do but tell her to use her “inside voice” in the future.

I think the “Defund” folks are merely saying that it would be a better use of taxpayer money to shift some funding from police departments to other agencies that are better trained to deal with these kinds of issues. Doing so would be consistent with the push to decriminalize and destigmatize people with mental health conditions, addiction problems, etc.

The expressions “White privilege,” “Black lives matter,” and “defund the police” are examples of how words trigger different responses from different people. We should always try to understand the intent before we react negatively.

I’m reminded of a State Department official’s comment years ago in response to a confused reporter: “I know you believe you understand what you think I said, but what you don’t realize is that what you ‘heard’ is not what I meant.”

We must always try to ensure that what we “hear” is the intended message, not just what our mental filters lead us to believe. ■