My Soul Sista: Today I Wrote her Obituary

             

Margaret (“Peggy”) Miller

   Margaret Lynn (“Peggy”) Miller, née Flygare, 60, died at home in Honolulu, Hawaii on January 24, 2017. Margaret was born on January 21, 1957 in Idaho Falls, Idaho to Robert J. and Viola (Swedberg) Flygare. She was the fourth of five sisters.

   Margaret graduated from Springfield High School in Springfield, Illinois in 1975, and attended Lincoln Land Community College in Springfield, where she received training and certification as a registered nurse.

   Margaret had a deep love for animals, and was known for her gift of compassion and caring throughout her life. She had unconditional positive regard for all people, and her brilliant insight and unselfish love for others provided affirmation and acceptance for all she encountered.

   Margaret was a licensed pilot for many years, and a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. In addition, she loved nature, especially bird watching and being near the ocean. Margaret expressed her joy in life with her astonishing gift of humor, which included her ability to write hilarious satire; in addition, she was a deep thinker, able to express herself with eloquence on a variety of topics. She possessed a tremendous vocabulary, a ready smile, a spontaneous gift for silliness, a generous spirit, and a complete lack of materialism. Throughout her sweet walk in the world, Margaret spent several years living in China, where she taught English as a second language. She was beloved by her students.

   Margaret is survived by her three sons: Jonathan, Clifford and Stuart. They were the greatest pride and joy of her life. She is also survived by her mother, Viola Flygare of St. Charles, IL; sisters Elizabeth Flygare of Rockford, Illinois, Susan (Peter) Felice of Countryside, Illinois, Catherine (Ronald) Martin of Cherry Hill, New Jersey and Nancy (John) Siegel of Greenwood, Indiana. In addition, she is survived by numerous nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews, cousins, and many dear friends. She is predeceased by her father, Robert J. Flygare.

  Per Margaret’s wishes, cremation rites have been accorded.  A celebration of Margaret’s life will be held at a later date in Illinois.

How I am boycotting the inauguration of Donald Trump

Sad Friday

Tonight, President Obama closed his farewell address to the nation by repeating the promise he made to all Americans in his campaign and at his victory in 2008: "Yes, we can." Who could ever forget that phrase? Now, eight years later, for the last time, he reminded us of the power of hope and faith: "Yes, we did," he told the nation tonight. "Yes, we can."

Donald Trump will be sworn in as President of the United States on Friday, January 20, 2017. I find it ironic that his inauguration falls on a Friday. I have also, all my life, been stunned and horrified that the day that commemorates the execution of Jesus Christ, observed on a Friday, is called Good Friday. Why isn’t it called what it is: The Crucifixion of Jesus? Bad Friday? Sad Friday? It is, of course, because most Christians believe what the Bible tells us: that Jesus Christ suffered and shed his blood for us to save us from our sins, and He rose with glory from the dead on Easter Sunday.

Barack Obama isn’t going to come back on Sunday, January 22, to redeem this country. There won’t be salvation for the sins of those who voted the monster Donald Trump into office. 

I think of Friday, January 20 as a tragedy. A death. To me, Barack Obama is Christ-like, not because I confuse him with who most Christians believe to be the son of God.  No, I don't believe he is divine; I have no delusions that he is Jesus Christ come again.  I don’t worship Mr. Obama. I say it because he embodies, to me, the human being I aspire to be, which is the type of person Jesus was. I grieve because Friday is the day that I am losing my beloved President, Barack Obama, to the evil likes of Satan. I feel like it is, indeed, a crucifixion of sorts. When President Obama’s term officially ends at noon on that Sad Friday, I hope somewhere in this nation a moment of silence is observed. If I flew the flag, it would be at half-staff. I feel that God has forsaken not just me, but all of us. 

To me, President Obama is a hero. He is also human, of course. He has his faults. But he has done a magnificent job, and he has been respected worldwide. And now he has to go away. In ten days, he leaves the White House to a narcissist who ran for the office as a publicity stunt and never thought he would win – and now that he has, he and his family will probably not even care to live in the White House. I cannot even imagine Melania Trump as the First Lady, although I’m told that she has more common sense than her spouse does. How could this have been allowed to happen? Barack Obama was a President who made America great; what pride I have felt during this past eight years. More than once I've heard people lament the fact that he couldn't run for a third term; I understand that U.S. Presidents get but two. But couldn’t the Republicans have nominated and run a sane, ethical woman or man to take the torch from Barack Obama if their party won? Why and how could this have been allowed to happen in the United States of America, my country? I thought there were already written provisions in place to prevent an unfit fool from ascending to the highest office in the land. The United States is already shifting from being admired to becoming a worldwide laughingstock. I bow my head in shame even though it isn’t my personal doing. I didn’t vote for the man, but I am an American and Donald Trump is going to be President of the United States, which means he will be my president. But Donald Trump will never have my respect. I find even the thought of hearing Hail to the Chief being played for Donald Trump reprehensible; in fact, incomprehensible.

To me, Barack Obama has always exuded an aura of kindness, compassion, wisdom, and hope. Every time I see a picture of him, or watch a video of him speaking, I just break out into a smile. He has always been my sunshine – our sunshine. And the First Lady, Michelle Obama, exemplifies the class and grace that we haven’t seen since the Jackie Kennedy days. Malia and Sasha were kept under the radar, as it should be, but never did either of them bring shame upon that family.  Nor scandal. Nor embarrassment. Never on President Obama’s watch did anything occur to cause him censure. He never had to proclaim, “I am not a crook.” There was no Watergate. There was no tabloid drama. Our country has had eight years of grace, led by a respected man who is – yes – from Illinois, where I live, which I suppose contributes to my loyalty. I have been so proud to be an American – to say “This is our President! This is our First Lady!” I have felt nothing but trust, joy, and hope as I have watched President Barack Obama lead our country with such elegance, genuine charisma, compassion, wisdom, and an affect that I can only describe as noble and dignified.

On January 20, I won’t be sitting in front of the TV. I will be in the car with my friend Marie and our four cats, en route to our vacation spot in Port Charlotte, Florida. We won't be listening to the live broadcast; instead, we'll have music. Each of us has made a playlist of songs which we’ll listen to as a protest while this travesty is taking place.

Marie’s is different, she says. Hers starts with the election of Trump. I chose to start mine with Bill Clinton’s campaign; I didn't bother with Bush. President Obama didn't have a campaign song that I know of, so I segued to Hillary Clinton’s nomination, her hopes and dreams, the early warnings of disaster with the rise of Trump, a flicker of hope after the debates, and the terrible night of the election. I cried for almost two hours after it was announced that Mrs. Clinton had phoned Donald Trump, and her concession speech the following day left me too numb for more tears. I’m know I’m not the only one who reacted to this surreal Donald Trump victory with shock and horror, followed by fear and depression. 

My playlist continues with the absolute worst-case scenarios that go through my mind when I can’t sleep: Trump’s seeming disdain for the poor, his legitimization of the scathing racism and sexism that have lurked in the deepest bowels of ignorant human minds, his cruel deportation threats, his name-calling, his lack of concern for the environment, and the fear of war that his actions are generating. I add the prayers, my own and those that came from the pulpit of my own mainstream United Methodist Church, although I ask God to give me strength. Our pastor prays for God to give Mr. Trump the ability to succeed, although I think the odds are against it. And I will continue to fight for justice in any way that I can. My playlist turns to hope and to the will to survive, and to my vow to live my life as a strong, positive woman who will stand up for what’s right, rather than lying down and sucking this up.

I end my songlist with Sir Paul McCartney’s moving tribute to President Barack Obama at the White House in a live performance of Hey, Jude with the President and First Lady and Malia and Sasha singing along:

“Hey Jude, don't make it bad

Take a sad song and make it better…

"… and any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain

Don't carry the world upon your shoulders,

For well, you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder…..

"...and don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do

The movement you need is on your shoulder…

"Then you'll begin to make it

Better, better, better, better, better oh

Nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah, hey Jude.”

Nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah, hey Jude."

Here is my playlist:

ELECTION BLUES

Don't Stop (Official Live Version) - Fleetwood Mac

High Hopes - Frank Sinatra

Watch Out! - Holly Near

Nowhere Man - The Beatles

God is Sleeping/You've Got to be Taught - Ann Reed

Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival

I Have a Dream - ABBA

I Dreamed a Dream - Susan Boyle

It Could Have Been Close - Tret Fure

Isn't Life Strange? - The Moody Blues

The Times, They are a-Changin' - Simon and Garfunkel

In My Hour of Darkness - Gram Parsons

Calling All Angels - Eliza Gilkyson

God Give Me Strength - Elvis Costello with Burt Bacharach

Chiquitita - ABBA

Who Brought the Flood? - Debra Cowan

Way Down - Bonnie Koloc

Chilling of the Evening - Arlo Guthrie

Eve of Destruction - Barry McGuire

Greenfields - Eliza Gilkyson (written by her father, Terry Gilkyson)

Dancing at Whitsun - Priscilla Herdman

The Band Played Waltzing Matilda - Priscilla Herdman

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll - Phranc

Requiem for the Giant Trees - Eileen McGann

Ohio - Dala

Trouble in the Fields - Maura O'Connell with Nanci Griffith

Ruins by the Shore - Debra Cowan

The Blackest Crow - Bruce Molsky with Julie Fowlis

Crow on the Cradle - Trapezoid

Blessed - Simon and Garfunkel

Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley

Hard Times Come Again No More - Eastmountainsouth

Kumbaya - Joan Baez in Concert

From a Distance - Judy Collins

Little People - Les Miserables Cast

I Want to Live - John Denver

Mountain Song - Holly Near

Talkin' Bout a Revolution - Tracy Chapman

I've Seen All the Good People - Yes

Singing for Our Lives - Holly Near and Ronnie Gilbert

Do You Hear the People Sing? - Les Miserables Cast

Hey Jude - Live Performance - Sir Paul McCartney 

"Yes, we can!" I pray that you are right, Mr. President.              

  

"I want to be with Carrie."

Those were Debbie Reynolds' last words, just hours ago today. Just a few moments ago, Marie and I turned on our computers and Huffington Post wouldn't load. We tried CNN and saw the headline, and couldn't believe it. We checked NBC, and it is true. Debbie Reynolds has died.

Debbie Reynolds. This breaks me into little pieces. Yesterday, while posting about the death of her daughter, it didn't even occur to me to quip, "This will just kill Debbie Reynolds." I am sitting here numb. Debbie Reynolds, at 84, looked so vital. So fresh. So strong. I was so wrong.

She was at her son Todd's house, it is reported, beginning preparations for her daughter's funeral, when she experienced shortness of breath. She was rushed to the hospital where she died of a stroke. One day after losing Carrie. Devastated, I can only imagine. But gone now? I can't get my mind around it. Marie tells me that she's read about Debbie Reynolds apparently having a couple of strokes, but we don't know the source of that information. It isn't in the news story - yet. She seemed functionally OK when she posted the comment on Facebook yesterday, although the missing punctuation marks show a red flag, now that I take a second look.

Debbie Reynolds has died of a broken heart. May she be reunited with her daughter and find peace.

Carrie Fisher:1956-2016

Remembering Carrie Fisher

  What does one say? How does one express feelings when our primary vehicle these days seems to be either blogs or social media? I grew up with Carrie and Todd Fisher. I watched their father leave their mother; even then, at a young age, I wondered about how those two siblings would be affected. 

No mother should have to bury her child. It’s looking like what happened to Carrie is, in some ways, similar to what happened to my beloved friend Jean Mangan three years ago, at the age of 59. My heart broke then for her mother, Joan; and my heart breaks today for Debbie Reynolds, who is just six years younger than my own mother, and is faced with this heartbreak. I turn to Facebook for inspiration from folks I know personally; it's late at night and I simply don’t know where else to go. I’m not surprised to find wise words from so many thoughtful people. 

MaryEllen Morgan, a dear friend from my high school days, posts: “Let's face it, we all wish we could make as deep an impression as Carrie Fisher did in her 60 years (a small amount of time, if you look at the lifespan of our fathers and mothers); her lifespan was short. But we all need this as a lesson to us. What do we need to do and say in the new year? What does your life say about you? What legacy do you want to leave? There is so much work to do out there, my friends. Please make room in your weekly schedule to step up and forward to advance the ideals we all believe are important.” 

I respond to her: “MaryEllen, I resolve that as I grow older, I shall always remember that as each day passes, life becomes more and more precious." I continue: "I will try to hold back the curt word, the sarcastic comment, the impulse to retort. I will strive to react kindly and with courtesy to Marie, my best friend with whom I live. I will make a heartfelt effort to control my quick temper, and to avoid the curt response. To smile at people. To give from my heart to others." Quietly, I pray that for the maturity to think beyond my own personal bubble. I ask for guidance and hope in the coming years. May all of us find a meaningful way to work for peace and justice in this troubled world. Because MaryEllen is right. There's so much to be done.

 I talk with my significant other, Paul Dale Anderson, who reminds me: "Know that every minute we spend with loved ones is a gift not to be taken for granted. We ought to consciously cherish those times, and to make all our interactions positive." My response to Paul: "Yes. Life is a treasure. I'll do my part by striving to remember to put others first; and by making amends when I am wrong, without expecting forgiveness. I desire to radiate love and acceptance to all people of all backgrounds, ages, religions, personal life choices, and situations. To find a way to work for peace and justice. It all begins within one's self." 

That's why I pray every day. 

Right now, I think of a certain 84-year old (yes, famous) mother, dear to me from my youth, who now has to bury her 60-year-old child. I pray for Debbie Reynolds and for her family and friends, who will surely provide a wellspring of strength to her. May she know peace and grace at this time of sorrow. 

And so I add:  "Everyone is a beloved child of God.  Think before you speak. Think before you speak. Think before you speak.”   

 

More on Claw Hammer: I get to repeat myself because I'm old

Another Paul Dale Anderson essay, because this is my blog and I get to write it. Even if I repeat myself. I get to do that, too, because I am 66 years old and have earned that privilege.

This book has a great amount of personal significance to me, because it marks the beginning of my friendship with Paul Dale Anderson. In 1989, when Claw Hammer first came out, a co-worker at Rockford Public Library told me about it and I was immediately intrigued. I've always been a horror fan, and I was impressed that a local author had published what promised to be the type of read that was right up my alley. I got hold of the book and I was not disappointed - I devoured it, and I decided that I had to meet this Paul Anderson. At the time, I was running the Northern Illinois Writers Conference, so I immediately hired him to present a workshop, which he did - and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his lovely wife, Gretta. Paul and I connected immediately and were to go on to become great friends. That same year, I performed on my fretted dulcimer at an event sponsored by Rock River Friends of Folk Music, and Paul and Gretta were in the audience. I again had a chance to talk with them and it just reinforced to me what intelligent, interesting people they were. Paul got a job at the Library soon thereafter, and our friendship clicked; we went on to share grisly stories and try to outdo one another with demented humor and the sharing of our love for language. We co-wrote a stage production to commemorate the retirement of Joel Rosenfeld, our director; I wrote parodies on four show tunes and Paul did the script. I have pictures of us from that era, posing with Mr. Rosenfeld - me sporting a dreadful spiral perm and Paul with his signature beard, bushy black hair, and evil yet charming smile. We spoke often about Claw Hammer, and Paul encouraged me in 2008 when I wrote my own novel, The Five Notebooks.

Paul left the library at some point but came back; both of us had been through enormous life changes. The connection had survived; I remember rolling my desk chair up to his cubicle and pouring out my heart. I imagine I was ranting about work, or maybe just the state of things at large; in any case, he listened. We'd often see one another in the staff lounge, each in a corner with a book, and that twinkle in his eye continued to make me smile. Remember---at this point, we were friends. Co-workers and kindred spirits. Nothing even vaguely romantic crossed my mind in my interactions with Paul; he was a happily married man, devoted to his wife.

I retired from the library in 2010 and Paul retired the following year to devote his time to Gretta, whose health was failing. When he posted on Facebook of her death in January of 2012, I broke down and cried for this kind man who would have done anything under heaven for her to live. I sent him a letter immediately, expressing my condolences, and I attended Gretta's memorial service. That winter, I thought often about my dear friend Paul, now so broken and bewildered. He would come into the Friends of the Library shop were I volunteered, and we'd talk frankly about his loss, and I noticed in these conversations that he spoke freely to me as if I were family. I was honored by that. I still considered him a dear friend and I wondered what life had in store for him.

Months later, Paul sent me a message on Facebook - basically a greeting. What started as banter turned into a deep conversation that went on for quite some time. Through the written word, we mutually decided to meet. AGAIN - for me, it was to touch base with my dear friend, share a bottle of wine and some memories, and give him a chance to talk his heart out with someone who knew him and would listen to what he needed so express. Both of us were blindsided by what transpired that night—we fell in love.

We didn't expect to fall in love. Love is sneaky and capricious and I think love has a sense of humor as demented as the twisted plays on words that Paul and I have always shared. Love calmly sailed in that evening and tapped both of us on the shoulder, stunning me. (I can only speak for my own reaction.) For him, it meant more than just beeing moonstruck; he had to cope with the well-meaning but intrusive comments that inevitably came his way, most not complimentary to me. For me, it involved a 180 degree change in the way I chose to love, along with equally snide comments from others who thought I was temporarily insane. It could have disrupted my household, but it did not. Love was the joker, but the joker wasn't wild; love was sensible and compassionate. For almost five years now, Paul and I have continued to love one another deeply while choosing not to marry and not to share a home. My mooring points are intact, and he is doing his dream; he followed his heart and gave up his hypnosis practice to return to his true calling: writing. My challenge is to remember to give him the personal, physical, mental and emotional space he needs so he can do this work.

Why do I share all this? Because it was through Claw Hammer that we met, and now Claw Hammer is born anew - this time updated and presented in trade paperback with a gorgeous cover that calls out "Buy me!" I reread it, of course, as soon as I got my autographed copy, and I found that even then, the Paul Dale Anderson of 1989 had the chops and the talent and the gift for plotting and creating memorable characters that is the trademark of the Paul Dale Anderson of today. I watch him now, with joy, as he has begun editing the sequel to Spilled Milk, and I relish in his Instruments of Death series. His Winds series took me to a different level; he combined personal catharsis with his deep knowledge of everything from military strategy to Eastern spiritual practices to the history of our beloved city; weaving a series of genre-bending, gorgeously written books - well worth reading. In addition, his short stories are masterpieces.

So, Paul---you and I have walked through this forest apart and together--marveling at trees, sitting on stumps, tripping on vines, laughing into the sun and crying in the rain. I am honored to call you beloved friend and now loved one as well. And I celebrate this by seeing Claw Hammer come full circle. I know that even though Gretta is on the other side, she's still right beside you, feeling pleased that you are happy and that you’re back in the world of writing. I’m proud to be by you side now, and I couldn't be prouder of you, Paul Dale Anderson. as I hold in my hand my copy of Claw Hammer, which is still a perfectly-paced, intelligently written and terrifying read. I love you, Paul, and I love your writing. All your books. But this one will forever be special. ----Lizza

For Paul Dale Anderson

Now on Amazon!

Trade Paperback of Claw Hammer

Oh, my stars. This started out as a brief Facebook post, and has become not only my celebration of a major event in Paul Dale Anderson’s life as a writer - the reissue of his bestselling novel, Claw Hammer, in trade paperback; but my passionate love letter to him. I received my copy (and his autograph) yesterday, and I cherish this prize as I feel cherished by him. Paul deserves this—the chance to revise Claw Hammer and see it in a new format that will bring him even more devoted readers.  He has always been a masterful horror/suspense author, and revisiting this novel has made me see, anew, what a talent Paul has nurtured all his life--and how even though his craft has matured, he already had "It" - that special touch, back in 1989 when I read his work for the first time.

Paul and I both have a physical love affair with books. There is something about a trade paperback that always takes my breath away. The creamy, matte paper, the cover artwork, the font faces, the drop caps, the professional presentation, the crisp newness. What a piece of work I hold in my hands! Claw Hammer has extra-special meaning to me, because it was that gritty 1989 mass-market paperback that made 39-year-old Elizabeth Flygare decide that she simply HAD to meet this "Paul Anderson" from Rockford, Illinois. Little did I know what how what was to unfold over the coming decades. We began as professionals, each in our own realm; first, I hired him as a guest presenter at the Northern Illinois Writers Conference, which I headed when I worked at the Library. That same year, he and his lovely wife Gretta came to a Rockford Friends of Folk Music event where I performed on fretted dulcimer. It was only after then that Paul Dale Anderson came back to work at Rockford Public Library, becoming my colleague and my instant friend. Our mutual love of horror along with our appreciation of literature, psychology, good music and snappy conversation made us kindred spirits. Paul was always there for me, to laugh with me and to listen to my stories, as I listened to his. It doesn’t surprise me that when I go through old photographs, I find pictures of us together in the workplace.

Paul wove in and out of my life for the next two decades. At each meeting, we found our friendship intact. It was Paul Dale Anderson who grasped the profound impact on my life and the depth of my grief, even as I couldn’t do so myself, when my father died in 1997. It was Paul Dale Anderson who shared my demented sense of humor and co-wrote, with me, the stage production which was performed by Library staff in 2000 to bid Joel Rosenfeld bon voyage upon his retirement. It was Paul Dale Anderson who would come into the staff lounge with that twinkle in his eye, and his pipe, with his "Hi, Elizabeth," and that devilish grin back in the day—even when I didn’t want to talk. We’d sit in our corners with our books, neither of us knowing that our great minds were probably thinking alike. And later, it was Paul Dale Anderson, back at RPL part-time, who didn't mind when I rolled my chair up to his desk in the Adult Services office and poured out my vents about the traumatic changes in our workplace. Paul, in his astute way, perceived what troubled me, but wisely withheld unsolicited advice, instead lending me his patient listening ear. When I left the Main Library to work at a branch and subsequently retired, I didn’t realize until later that he might have missed me as much as I missed him, with his newly-minted library degree and successful hypnosis practice. And finally - when the shock of the loss of his beautiful wife Gretta in January 2012 shattered his world, it was I who sat in my living room chair and wept, unable to find the words that would give him grace. To me, he was more than friend; he was tribe – he was brother to me. When he hurt, I hurt. But the love I had for him then was purely agape love, and vice versa.

And here I am now, blessed as I find myself by his side – it will be five years this April. Who can explain how and when a love like this can blossom and bring two hearts together? In the great scheme of things, I believe both Paul and I needed to live the lives we lived, and that it was pure grace that we recognized in one another the promise of a new surprising turn in our road that April. Then came that day in May, at our first WisCon together, when Paul told me of his decision to retire from his career as a hypnotist and return to the world of writing. I was honored to be there by his side, and challenged to respect his need for solitude as he climbed back up on the horse and resumed the ride. I haven’t always succeeded, but I’ve tried to give him the quiet space he needs as he builds his fine reputation in the changing arena of the writing world. And now, we're seeing it together - the harvest of his dream realized - many books published, his name now known, and the celebration today of the book I hold in my hands that first drew me to become his friend.

We can and do love many people, and in many different ways. I respect and revere the memory of his beloved Gretta, as I delight in the gift of becoming his loving companion now as we lean into our senior years. Paul Dale Anderson has taught me what love is, and what love is not. We cherish our times, learning from each other’s ways; we know we don’t need to marry nor share a home to be together. When apart, other friends and other experiences enrich our days, so when we come together, we meet refreshed, having had our own space to learn new things, which we share with each other. I want to think that somehow dear Gretta is at peace that he is happy.

And now I look at him, amazed. Paul Dale Anderson, who has taught me the concept of unconditional positive regard - tough love at times, but steadfast love just the same. Paul Dale Anderson, whose words inspired me to get sober three years ago. Paul Dale Anderson, who helps me remember, every day, that love is not needy, and love is not rescuing. Paul Dale Anderson, who appreciates and shares my deranged sense of humor, recognizes that we’re both incurable romantics, and knows exactly when to hold my hand. Paul Dale Anderson, the only other person I know who watches all the credits after a movie. Lover of cats, father, professional writer, scientist, scholar, elegant gentleman, generous friend, sweet lover. The paradox is that while perplexing and maddening at times, as well as numinous and multifaceted, ours really is a simple love. Yes - pared down to its purity - it is uncomplicated. It is, after all, the most elemental force: love.

So – you who haven't yet read a Paul Dale Anderson novel, (and all of you who have had the pleasure), know that when you hold this new edition of Claw Hammer in your hands, you can look forward to a brilliant, well-crafted read full of surprising turns, vibrant characters and impeccable timing. Then, after you have finished it, go on and read his other books! The world is a richer place because Paul Dale Anderson is in it. I love him.

I'm not gonna take it

TODAY'S FACEBOOK POST

Trump chooses Sen. Jeff Sessions for attorney general, Rep. Mike Pompeo for CIA director

OK. I'm done. Jeff Sessions is ANTI-CIVIL RIGHTS. I tried being gracious and even posting to individuals' Facebook pages that I was sick of all the negativity, and that we should all unite. How can we unite in peace and hope? This is my tipping point. I can't. Not any more. I'm too bold and outspoken and opinionated to force myself to subdue my personality. What is happening to our country is so vile, so unspeakably demonic, so viscerally terrifying that I can no longer abide by what Hillary Clinton suggested in her concession speech: that we must accept that Donald Trump will be our president, and that we must give him a chance. He is showing that he is a mentally unbalanced, narcissistic, shallow and evil carnival huckster who has managed to hypnotize a large portion of our population. He is vomiting his hate into every valley and every river and every mountain in this land that I love. I can't leave the country. I'm 66 years old and my entire body is racked with arthritis to the point where I can't sleep. I can't go out and march and demonstrate; I have days when I can barely walk. What can seniors do? Where are the college students - where are the young, passionate, bright shining stars who will stand up and fight? Because posting on Facebook won't do it. When I talk to my closet friends, I'm preaching to a choir who knows the notes much better than I do and, like me, lack the physical energy to even think about the subject, much less go out there and be activists.. Some have chosen to retreat; I respect that, because a human being can just take so much before they reach the magic number 7 plus or minus 2. I woke up this morning with "Do you hear the people sing" playing in my head. Will it come to that? Will I live to see the wreckage---probably. Will I live to see the healing? I doubt it. All I have are my words. From now on, even though I realize I'll be unfriended, I'm going to be open about the wretched way I feel about the atrocities that are being visited upon our country after this nightmarish election. I can't suck it up and I won't. To all my friends who've had to read my cloying, pompous scoldings about how we should all "unite and be as one people," I give my heartfelt amend. Those who support Trump and what he has already begun to do to dismantle the country I love have no problem expressing their opinions here.So I shall express mine too. This isn't about Hillary Clinton, nor Democrats, nor Republicans any more.(I could have lived with a Mitt Romney presidency). But I cannot and WILL NOT accept the situation we're in, and I can't just sit in my recliner and weep. WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN? Will there be an outright rebellion - a revolution? Is this the end of the United States of America? It feels, to me, like the end of the world.