Lift Up Your Hearts!

I've been reading through our Constitution recently, a practice I recommend, along with reading the entire Bible on an annual basis. You never know what's going to jump out at you.

Here's a stark reminder of the dangers of getting our information from headlines, sound bites, click-bait, and quotations taken out of context.

There you have it.  Be a good citizen and vote accordingly.

It is easy to be heavy, hard to be light.
— G. K. Chesterton

Despite being six foot four and nearly 300 pounds himself, Chesterton wasn't talking about obesity. Here's the context of the quote.

When I began this post (in 2012!), it was intended to be ruminations on Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project, which I reviewed briefly here. The quotations I pulled out in preparation are below; almost 13 years later, I'd have to re-read the book to make any sensible comments, so I'm just going to leave the quotes as is, without the ruminations.

Happiness, some people think, isn't a worthy goal; it's a trivial, American preoccupation, the product of too much money and too much television. They think that being happy shows a lack of values, and that being unhappy is a sign of depth.

Some people associate happiness with a lack of intellectual rigor.

Of course, it's cooler not to be happy. There's a goofiness to happiness, an innocence, a readiness to be pleased. Zest and enthusiasm take energy, humility, and engagement; taking refuge in irony, exercising destructive criticism, or assuming an air of philosophical ennui is less taxing.

Other people cultivate unhappiness as a way to control others. They cling to unhappiness because without it they'd forgo the special consideration that unhappiness secures: the claim to pity and attention.

The belief that unhappiness is selfless and happiness is selfish is misguided. It's more selfless to act happy. It takes energy, generosity, and discipline to be unfailingly lighthearted, yet everyone takes the happy person for granted. No one is careful of his feelings or tries to keep his spirits high. He seems self-sufficient; he becomes a cushion for others. And because happiness seems unforced, that person usually gets no credit.

There's yet another group of people who have a superstitious dread of admitting to happiness, for fear of tempting fate. Apparently, this is practically a universal human instinct and seen in nearly all cultures—the dread of invoking cosmic anger by calling attention to good fortune.

If you don't believe you're happy, you're not. As Publilius Syrus observed, "No man is happy who does not think himself so." If you think you're happy, you are. That's why [Saint] Thérèse [of Lisieux] said,"I take care to appear happy and especially to be so."

A prayer attributed to Saint Augustine of Hippo includes the line "shield your joyous ones" [the innocent and child-like]:

Tend your sick ones, O Lord Jesus Christ;
rest your weary ones; bless your dying ones;
sooth your suffering ones; pity your afflicted ones;
shield your joyous ones.
And all for your love's sake.

Episcopalians will recognize this from the Evening Prayer section in the Book of Common Prayer:

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give thine angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for thy love’s sake. Amen.

Why worry about the joyous ones? ... We non-joyous types suck energy and cheer from the joyous ones; we rely on them to buoy us with their good spirit and to cushion our agitation and anxiety. At the same time, because of a dark element in human nature, we're sometimes provoked to try to shake the enthusiastic, cheery folk out of their fog of illusion—to make them see that the play was stupid, the money was wasted, the meeting was pointless. Instead of shielding their joy, we blast it.

There's a lot of misery in the world: pain, fear, tragedy, and immeasurable suffering. That is all the more reason to seek, find, create, and celebrate happiness when we can. Let's not play the "more miserable than thou" game. Let's dare to be happy, and encourage the joy of others.

I remember the days when we were enthusiastic supporters of National Public Radio and the Public Broadcasting Service. WFLN in Philadelphia, WXXI in Rochester, WMFE in Orlando. This was primarily because wherever we went, they were the stations of classical music. And PBS was where you could find great shows like Mystery! and Connections and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.

When that changed, I'm not sure. The biggest break for me came when WMFE split off their music and put it on a radio frequency we couldn't receive. It became all talk, all the time, and most of that did not interest me. I remained a huge fan of shows like Car Talk and A Prairie Home Companion, but found little of the other non-music talk worth my time.

I'm pretty sure we stopped our regular support of WMFE when we could no longer get the music, but Porter still listened to their shows during his morning and evening commutes. It helped distract him from the traffic, though it certainly didn't have a calming effect. I believe it was at about that point he started calling it National Socialist Radio. With good reason.

After he retired and spent less time in the car, our public radio consumption became rare, as we'd tune into something for a few minutes, then start to wish that we could cut off our tax contributions to the system as we had our personal money.

Sasha Stone's experience was more dramatic than ours. She was not only a great supporter of NPR/PBS, but was herself interviewed on Weekend Edition back in 2012. (Ms. Stone is another one of those people I would never have chosen to listen to—what do I care about Hollywood and the Oscars?—but once introduced, found her interesting and insightful.) That link takes you to one of her recent Substack posts. Caveat: I have only read the text, and not watched all the videos.

Sasha's own story is interesting enough, but what inspired me to include it here was that part of it pertains to New Hampshire. The context is NPR's substantial political bias.

Just look at NPR’s shameful coverage of the trans issue.... Search for any story that tells the opposing viewpoint ever. You won’t find it. For an ideology that the Democrats insist represents only 1% of the population, it sure is a popular topic at NPR. Searching just in the last year brings up hundreds, if not thousands of stories. They seem to never tire of different ways to tell the transgender perspective to their listeners and yet have no way of telling even one story that represents the alternative viewpoint.

Recently, in New Hampshire, a 23-year-old Democratic representative named Jonah Wheeler voted to protect women in sports, causing a major uproar in the city. His constituents demanded a town hall meeting, but Wheeler bravely stood up to them.

At the same meeting, a young man spoke before the crowd, asking the woman there what she would tell parents of detransitioners like him who had been convinced to have their testicles removed because that would make them women. He now has to live this way for the rest of his life.

NPR had no search results for Representative Jonah Wheeler. Certainly, none for whistleblower Jamie Reed, who was there to support Wheeler, and even stayed after to ensure he got to his car safely. Reed has been traveling from state to state to ensure laws banning “gender-affirming care” are passed.

But over at NPR, she doesn’t exist. And if she doesn’t exist, most of the people you know on the Left will never have heard of her, or this dramatic story playing out in New Hampshire.

If you want to see the videos of the speeches, you'll have to go to the whole essay. I did watch the ones pertaining to the New Hampshire story, which was probably not good for my blood pressure, but at least they're short.

I don't know the solution to the problem of funding the arts, or science, or education, or medicine, or almost anything for that matter. Generally, I'm for markets as free and control as local as possible; it's not so much that they do a great job, as that they do far better than any other system I've seen. It's like the saying that democracy is the worst form of government—except for all the others.

But there is definitely a place for government and governmental action. The trick lies in matching the action with the appropriate level. The further up the food chain we go, the greater the power and the money—and the greater the risk of tyranny and corruption. It also makes it possible, as in the case of PBS and NPR, for a single ideology to dominate, whether it's the medieval Catholic Church or a modern secular movement.

There's a lot to be said for the Principle of Subsidiarity. (See the top paragraphs at that link for further explanation.)

The Principle of Subsidiarity refers to the idea that decision-making authority should be placed where responsibility for outcomes will occur and in close proximity to where actions are taken. This principle emphasizes matching authority with responsibility and situating them as close as possible to operations for well-informed decisions.

Or as I frequently say,

Responsibility without authority is slavery; authority without responsibility is tyranny.

When an organization is financially dependent primarily on the direct support of the public (think NPR's fund drives), there's a smaller (though certainly non-zero) probability that it will become captured by an ideological power that cannot be trusted to serve the public's best interests. When an unelected governmental agency doles out huge sums of money for broadcasting, or education, or medical research, or just about anything, such that the entity cannot survive without the agency's funding, tyranny thrives.

Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!

Happy Easter, one and all!

The following post is from April 2017. I still like it, so you get it again (with a few modifications).

Looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. — Hebrews 12:2

This is the time of year when Christians make special recognition of Jesus' suffering, death, and resurrection. I love the Holy Week services, from Palm Sunday to Easter and everything in between. Having spent much of my life in more determinedly Protestant churches, I missed walking with Jesus through the momentous events between those two happy celebrations. It's a great way to prepare one's heart for Easter.

I have to ask myself: What does Jesus think of the events leading up to Easter? Not our church services, but the actual events, from his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, through his agonizing in the Garden of Gesthemene, his last Passover with his disciples, his betrayal, trial, and crucifixion, and that mysterious time between death and resurrection. What does he think of it all? I don't mean then, while he was going through it, but now. Looking back, if that has any meaning in his case.

I asked myself this question back in 2017 because I was thinking about childbirth. It seems ridiculous to compare the pains of childbirth to those of crucifixion, let alone the mental, emotional, and spiritual agony of all the sins and sorrows of the world, but bear with me here.

Setting aside the difference in scale, I think there are important parallels. In each case, there is pain, anguish, fear, physical and mental exhaustion, and reaching the point where you just know you can't go on any longer, followed by the unimaginable, unsurpassable thrill of victory, of success, of achievement—and the birth of something new, wondrous, and beautiful.

Most mothers I know like to exchange birth stories, in all their glorious and grisly detail. Those are "then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars" moments. But the toil and pain are remembered, not relived. We tell these "war stories" because we are justifiably taking credit for our part in the miracle. The pain has been crowned and glorified by its accomplishment.

Nor do we regale our children with the horrors of what it cost us for them to exist, at least not if we're psychologically healthy ourselves. If our child were to start to focus on the pain of childbirth, we would quickly tell him, "You're missing the whole point. Sure, it was a difficult process, but it was worth it. What matters is not the suffering, not the effort. What matters is that you were born! The pain is in the past, and our family is immeasurably greater because of it. The whole world is greater because you are here. That is the point. Be thankful for what I did for you, but don't dwell on it. Focus on using your uniqueness to be the best person you can be, to bless the family—and the world—you were born into. That, not your grief at my sufferings, nor even your gratitude for them, is what makes me happy and overwhelmingly glad to have endured them. Go—live with joy the life I have given you!"

So I wonder. Is it possible that Jesus has similar thoughts?

It's good to be reminded of the events that birthed our post-Easter world, and not to take lightly the suffering that made it possible. However, some people, many preachers, and even a few filmmakers appear to take delight in portraying Christ's agony in the most excruciating (consider the etymology of that word!) detail possible, even, like the medieval flagellants, attempting to participate in it. Even less extreme evangelists and theologians spend more ink and energy on Jesus' death than on his resurrection.

Could it be that Jesus looks back at that time with joy, knowing that he accomplished something difficult, important, and wonderful? Is it possible that he sometimes looks at us and thinks, You're missing the whole point? That it would rejoice his heart if we thought less about his death and more about how to use the new life he has given us?

Go—rejoice—live!

The following is almost entirely a reiteration of a Holy Week post from 2010. Fifteen years more of life experience has only sharpened the emotions I was feeling then.

Is there anything worse than excruciating physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual torture and death? It takes nothing from the sufferings of Christ commemorated this Holy Week to pause and consider a couple of other important persons in the drama.

I find the following hymn to be one of the most powerful and moving of the season. For obvious reasons, it is usually sung on Palm Sunday, but the verses reach all the way through to Easter.

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
Hark! all the tribes hosanna cry;
Thy humble beast pursues his road
with palms and scattered garments strowed.

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die;
O Christ, thy triumphs now begin
o'er captive death and conquered sin.

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
The angel armies of the sky
look down with sad and wond'ring eyes
to see the approaching sacrifice.

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh;
the Father on his sapphire throne
expects his own anointed Son.

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die;
bow thy meek head to mortal pain,
then take, O God, thy power, and reign.

The Father on his sapphire throne expects his own anointed Son. For millennia, good fathers have encouraged, led, or forced their children into suffering, from primitive coming-of-age rites to chemotherapy. Even when they know it is for the best, and that all will be well in the end, the terrible suffering of the fathers is imaginable only by someone who has been in that position himself.

And mothers?

The Protestant Church doesn't talk much about Mary. The ostensible reason is to avoid what they see as the idolatry of the Catholic Church, though given the adoration heaped upon male saints and church notables by many Protestants, I'm inclined to suspect a little sexism, too. In any case, Mary is generally ignored, except for a little bit around Christmas, where she is unavoidable. But in Holy Week, it's important to recognize that, whatever else Mary may have been and done, on Good Friday she was a mother who had just lost her son.

Did she recall then the prophetic word of Simeon when Jesus was but eight days old: "a sword shall pierce through your own soul also"? Did she find the image of being impaled by a sword far too mild to do justice to the searing, tearing torture of watching her firstborn son wrongly convicted, whipped, beaten, mocked, crucified, in an agony of pain and thirst, and finally abandoned to death? Did she find a tiny bit of comfort in the thought that death had at least ended the ordeal? Did she cling to the hope of what she knew in her heart about her most unusual son, that even then the story was not over? Whatever she may have believed, she could not have had the Father's knowledge, and even if she had, would that have penetrated the blinding agony of the moment?

In my head I know that the sufferings of Christ, in taking on the sins of the world, were unimaginably greater than the "mere" mental and physical pain of injustice and crucifixion. But in my heart, it's the sufferings of God his Father and Mary his Mother that hit home most strongly this Holy Week.

You may have noticed that I have often been leaving open the option to comment on my posts, despite what I said in "More Blog Changes." It turns out that cutting off blog comments is harder than I thought. I could easily disable all comments, but I want exceptions for certain posts and categories, which is a lot more work. Besides, I've discovered that I really miss the opportunity for cheery and encouraging notes from my readers, even if they are rare.

So I'm trying something different: cutting off old posts at the time they become attractive to spammers and trolls, instead of trying to make large-scale changes all at once. This "surgical strike" approach drags out the process but is more manageable. Why try to fix what isn't (yet) broken?

With new posts, it's easy to choose comments/no comments at the time they are published, so I'm going to be experimenting with how I handle that.

Life is a work in progress, and so is writing.

It's time for a re-evaluation of Lift Up Your Hearts!—and some changes.

I've been ruminating on this for a long time. For years, really. A year and a half ago I published Changes, my first attempt at bringing my blog dreams more in line with reality, but I'd been thinking about it long before that.

Change is not something I generally seek out, particularly if things are working "well enough." I'd much rather repair a car/appliance/computer/article of clothing/philosophy that is still functional than toss it and obtain the latest and greatest model. My phone is a Galaxy S9 and years ago passed the point where I could get anything reasonable in trade for it. It's reaching the point where I should probably upgrade, but I resist even thinking about that. My Lenovo T470 computer happily runs Windows 10, and there's no reason I should get a new one—except that Microsoft will soon drop Windows 10 support, and the computer is too old to run Windows 11.

I've stayed with certain churches longer than was healthy, and certain music teachers when I should have moved on.

I'm not saying this is entirely a bad thing. Porter and I recently celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary, in part a testament to the realization that it would be foolish to climb a difficult and dangerous fence on the highly unlikely chance that the grass might possibly be greener on the other side.

Lesser decisions, however, have little need for such permanance, and it's time for another change to my blog: I'm disabling comments.

That doesn't sound like a very big thing; after all, I hardly get any comments anyway—not ones that you can see. The signal-to-noise ratio is abysmal: The spammers and trolls have a lot to say, and I'm tired of dealing with them—and that's just the ones that get through the spam filter. There are better uses of bandwidth, not to mention my time and mental energy. I might put up with it if my posts generated the kind of wide-ranging, mutually-supportive back-and-forth discussions of events and ideas that I have always enjoyed, but it's time to be honest and acknowledge that they rarely do. I no longer have the appetite for debate that I once did—or perhaps I've never liked the confrontational style that many people seem to thrive on, and the kind of discussion I prefer is getting rarer.

A few people comment on the blog; others contact me privately if they have something to say. E-mail contact will remain an option, and most of what I write will continue to be cross-posted on Facebook. Unless I finally give up on that platform as well; who knows? I will miss those whose occasional comments encourage me that yes, someone is reading.

I will keep comments enabled for some categories, such as Pray for Grace and Genealogy, which are most likely to attract curious and helpful interactions. And I may occasionally open comments for other posts, when it seems warranted.

I'm not giving up on the blog itself, that's for sure. I've been at this for a quarter of a century, and this post will be number 3500! I see no reason to stop, and many reasons to continue. For myself, for those who read my posts because they find information or encouragement or something else of value, and for those who might find value here in the future, even if they aren't right now in a place to appreciate it. If it were helpful only to me, I would still find it worth my time and effort to publish my thoughts—and I know there are others who like what I write.

But in order for my efforts to continue to be fun and productive, I need to keep my headspace clean and focused. Not having to deal with comments—whether they are scammers trying to sell me products for body parts I don't have, or random people asking me to publish their own articles, or anything that tempts me to get involved in arguments—should help.

I may change my mind again sometime, but this is what I need to do for now.

I feel lighter already.

Let's honor our veterans—those who stand "between their loved home and the war's desolation"—by making our military into an occupation that attracts the best and the brightest, offers opportunities for education and advancement and a good future for those who need a hand up, provides well for their families, prioritizes their physical and mental health when they return home, and above all has the policies and direction to be a place where our service men and women can serve with honor and integrity.

That's the least we can do, and the alternative is a military draft. I lived through times of conscription, and don't ever want to see those horrors again.

I can't take credit for this, as it was inspired by something Bret Weinstein said in this DarkHorse Podcast (approximately 65 minutes in). But it's different enough that I can't make it a direct quotation.

It struck me this morning as both wise and widely applicable. As I've repeatedly said, we each have our part to do, and the results aren't up to us. But we can't know how close someone is to making a life-changing decision, and it would be good at the end of all things to discover that our own actions and attitudes have nudged people in a good direction, instead of hindering their progress.

Don't be manipulated. Good advice, but very broad, and hard to follow. This post was inspired by what I have read about "bad actors"—AI bots or paid humans—attempting to sow discontent, anger, and hatred online. The Chinese and the Russians have both been accused of this, with what seems to be pretty convincing evidence, and I fear some of it is also homegrown.

My greatest concern is that Artificial Intelligence is rapidly advancing to the point where we can no longer trust our own eyes and ears, at least where online videos are concerned. It is possible to manipulate images and audio to make it appear that someone is saying something he or she never said. Think what political enemies could do with that! Everything from rigging elections to starting World War III. And you know those crazy spam blackmail threats that claim they recorded you doing "nasty things" in front of your computer? The ones you face with a grim smile and quickly delete because you know you never did whatever it is they claim? Imagine them including a video of you "actually" doing or saying what you did not? What if they show you a candidate for public office in that compromising position? Or your spouse, or your children. What about fake kidnappings? I could go on and on—my imagination is fertile and paranoid.

But that's not where I'm going in this post. AI's not quite there yet, and we have a clear and present danger in the here and now: Angry, profane, and hateful comments posted to articles, videos, and podcasts. Nasty online videos (especially the short form commonly seen on Tik-Tok and Facebook Reels) whose purpose (obvious or subtle) appears to be to stir up negative emotions. And that's just what I see every day; I know there's a lot more out there. It's hard not to have a visceral reaction that does no one any good, least of all ourselves.

And that, I'm afraid, is exactly the purpose of what is being posted. To make us angry; to make us suspicious of each other; to influence our reactions, our actions, our purchases, and our votes.

The best solution I've been able to come up with (and I have no idea how effective it might be, except with me) is this:

• Know your sources. Is this negativity coming from someone you actually know, in person, so that you are aware of the context? Is it from someone you know online only, but have had enough experience with over time to assess his general attitude, reliability, and track record? If not, keep your salt shaker near.
• When in doubt, if the content tempts you to react badly, assume the best: It's a bot or troll whose purpose is to make you angry; or a human tool too desperate for a job to consider its moral implications; or an ordinary human being who has been having a bad day/week/year (doesn't that happen to all of us?). In any case, make an effort not to fall into the trap.
• Avoid sources that usually make you react badly. Unfortunately, I don't think we can afford to avoid seeking information about what is happening in the world. One of the first rules of self-defense is to be aware of your surroundings. But we can be cautious. Even the sources I find most reliable can have nasty trolls in the comment section, so I mostly avoid reading the comments. I'm also trying to wean myself off of the Facebook Reels (mostly ported over from Tik-Tok or Instagram it seems). They can be fun, and funny, and sometimes usefully informative. But they are definitely addictive, and I've noticed that far too many of them are negative, even if humorous, leaving an aftertaste of fear, anger, disgust, and/or suspicion. Not good for the human psyche!
• Consider slowing down? I'm struggling with this one, because of the reality that so much of our information comes in video form these days. Unlike print, in which it is easy to skim for information, to skip over irrelevant sections, and to slow down and reread what is important, and which provides a much better information-to-time-spent ratio, the best one can do with video is to speed it up. I find that almost everything can be gleaned from a video just as well if it's taken in at 1.5x speed, sometimes even 2x. Porter's ears and brain can manage 2x almost all the time. This is a blessing when there is so much worth watching and so little time! However, here's what I'm struggling with: videos watched at high speeds tend to sound over-excited, even angry, when at normal speed they are not. And the human nervous system is designed to react automatically to such stimuli in a way that is probably not good for us if we are not actually in a position to either fight or flee. I don't have a satisfactory answer for this, but I figure it's at least worth being aware of.
• Remember that the people you interact with online are human beings, who work at their jobs, love their families, and want the best for their country, just as you do. Unless they're not, in which case it's even more important not to rise to the bait.

Be aware, be alert, do what is right in your own actions and reactions, and hope for the best. It's healthier for us all.

After dealing with the COVID-response-induced shortages and empty shelves, a lot of people mock and shame people who buy more than their immediate need's worth of a commodity, calling them hoarders, or (even more derisively) "Preppers." During a time of crisis and shortage, such an attitude is understandable.

In normal times, it is dead wrong.

People who buy extra toilet paper, or cans of soup, or bottles of water for storage rather than immediate consumption are not hoarding, they are wisely preparing for any interruption of the grocery supply chain, be it a hurricane, a pandemic, civil unrest, or some other disruption. As long as they buy their supplies when stocks are plentiful, they are doing no harm; rather, they are  encouraging more production, and keeping normal supply mechanisms moving.

Plus, when a crisis comes, and the rest of the world is mobbing the grocery stores for water and toilet paper, those who have done even minor preparation in advance will be at home, not competing with anyone.

Here's an interesting interview with a guy who has studied crisis preparation for decades. I don't know him, don't know anything about him—but he's no fearmonger, despite taking the necessity of the job very seriously. He's calm, and reasonable, and worth listening to, if you have a spare hour.

Listening to this makes me miss the days when we lived in the Northeast, and had a cool basement. That would be a great place to store emergency supplies. Here, we'd have to store everything in our adequate but limited living area: we have no basement, and the garage, the attic, and anything outside are 'way too hot for most of the year (not to mention favorite places for critters to hang out).

On the other hand, we don't have to worry about freezing to death in winter weather. It's been a long time since we've routinely kept a stack of firewood!

(Family still trumps politics.)

I recently spent several days with Grace and her family. It was SO GOOD to see her in person and in action.

Grace is my hero.

There's a reason Christ said of children, "of such is the kingdom of heaven," and "whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it."

Grace has faith and trust as strong as any I have ever seen.

Her central line is covered by a dressing that needs to be changed periodically. I watched the process take place on our sun-drenched deck, complete with sterile gloves, masks, disinfectants, the whole nine yards. And what did Grace do? She lay flat on her back with her arms over her head, absolutely stock still, until the procedure was finished. This is the same procedure the hospital assumed would take five assistants to hold her down!

It's not as if she's a passive patient. She knows, for example, exactly how the daily procedure that flushes her lines must go, and doesn't trust the strange nurses who do it when she is in the hospital. When they do not follow the procedure, she does not hesitate to let them know.

But Grace trusts her parents, and relaxes patiently when she knows they're in charge.

What's more, she quietly accepts the necessary restrictions on her life, all the while living as normal a life as possible. (Well, mostly quietly. She IS a two-year-old.)

That small backpack contains the nutrition and whatever else goes into her stomach via her NG tube, plus the pump and associated controls. She's small, and it's heavy, so she'll more often be found dragging it along the ground instead of wearing it on her back, but it goes everywhere with her, except at night. She takes it as a matter of course, and is adept at manoeuvring all the associated lines as she goes about her normal play. (Not to mention that she is aware when the machine's beeping alerts her to a situation that needs attention, and sometimes even knows what must be done to fix the problem.)

Grace trusts her family (siblings as well as parents), and does the best she can to live a good life within the parameters that have been given to her. That's faith. (Her sister Faith is another one of my heroes.)

This faith and heroism is true of the rest of her family as well. When cancer comes to visit a family, it brings with it a host of opportunities for heroic behavior. Here's a great picture of the family at camp recently.

Those of you who enjoy puzzles might appreciate zooming in on the shirt that Jonathan (at the right, holding Grace) is wearing. Just to set the bar for you, our 14-year-old grandson, visiting from the other side of the Atlantic, figured it out in a matter of seconds. Don't let that deter you; most people take a lot longer than that, if they get it at all. (Though I will brag that I wasn't much behind him.)

In case you didn't catch it, a very important part of our vacation was getting the New Hampshire and Swiss cousins together for the first time in seven years. You won't see as many photos of that, as the latter folks are understandably more photo- and social media-shy, but it was such a great time, and they played together so joyfully as to do my heart a world of good!

For a complete Grace update, including a couple more adorable pictures and a cool story about Faith's soccer team, see the Heather's Day +170 post here.

I can't wait to see one of these new signs the next time we return to Florida by car.

I'd like to add, "Let's Keep It Free" to the sign, because freedom is a fragile thing. (Quoting Ronald Reagan, though I'm sure it wasn't original with him.)

I've always been ambivalent about electric cars. On the consumer end, eliminating exhaust fumes and engine noise is attractive, especially in cities, though I'm not convinced that electric cars are all that environmentally friendly when you look at the big picture. The electricity has to be produced somewhere, and while large-scale power generation and distribution might be more efficient than having an engine in every car, that doesn't make it harmless. It is beyond me why California—which already suffers from lack of what it takes to produce enough power for its popuation—is pushing to ban non-electric cars. Then there's the problem of the batteries that drive these cars: expensive to produce, requiring scarce resources, relatively short-lived, and difficult to recycle—I'm not convinced they aren't worse than the problem they are trying to solve. I don't think we know enough about it at this point, and I can't see burning our bridges until we know the cure isn't worse than the disease. We've had enough of that approach!

Be that as it may, I can still see the attraction, for the individual, of a small electric car for tooling around town. Not that I forsee living long enough for an electric car to fit into our budget. Even used they are ridiculously expensive. But that doesn't mean I'm not open to the idea.

Or rather, I was open. Having had an electric rental car forced upon us during our recent time in Maryland, you'd pretty much have to give us an electric car to make me want one at this point.

That's not to say that the computer nerd in me didn't find it exciting to read our Chevy Bolt's instruction manual. So many amazing features! It was a lot like getting a new computer, and upgrading to Windows 11 from Windows 3.1. Only no one ever expected me to learn a new computer operating system at highway speeds with our lives, and those of two grandchildren, depending on it. Fortunately, Porter—who had lots of experience with strange rental cars during his IBM travelling years, though none were electric—did a fine job. I wasn't even driving, but the flurry of on-the-fly questions ("What does that light mean? What does this button do? Where on earth is the shift lever? (There wasn't one.) How do I read these dispay heiroglyphics?") and the rapid flipping through the very thick manual on my part, hoping for answers, about did me in. I'm not against new technology, but prefer to get acquainted with it slowly.

That, however, was the least of my complaints. I was not at all happy with the 200-mile range of the car. Fortunately, all the wedding venues were reasonably close to the hotel, so we managed to get back to the airport without having to give it a recharge, but that doesn't mean it wasn't stressful. Especially since the battery lost about 20 miles of reserve just sitting in the parking garage overnight. It's not as if we could have just zipped into a gas station for 5 minutes to "fill the tank." I have run out of gas once in my life, and that's an experience I don't wish to repeat.

I know, theoretically there are places available for recharging electric vehicles. Even our local botanical gardens has a couple of spots in its parking lot where you can charge while you admire the plants. But we were in a strange city, and in all our driving never saw such a place to pull over and fill up. Google indicated that there were some in the area, but we never saw them. Oh, wait—even if we'd found such a place, we didn't have the time it would have taken for a recharge.

When we picked up the car, the Avis agent had brushed off our concern, with "any decent hotel will have plenty of charging stations." True, our otherwise lovely Hyatt Regency had a good number of such stations—but every single one of them was out of order, so we couldn't recharge overnight.

We survived the experience—Porter even enjoyed braking with the turn signal. That's not quite an accurate description, but it's what it looked like. There was also a foot pedal brake, but the hand brake somehow shunted power back into the battery, which was cool. But I don't quite see the usefulness of an electric vehicle if you want to travel more than 200 miles away from home; 100 miles if it's a day trip.

Maybe if we needed a second car just for short trips, an electric one would be nice. But for now, I hope we can enjoy for many more years our 11-year-old gasoline-powered car that seats eight, has a range of over 400 miles, and a tank that can be fully replenished in under 10 minutes. Okay, 30 minutes if the stop is at Buc-ee's.