Lift Up Your Hearts!

Grace is getting an MRI, and ECG, and bloodwork (including thyroid) tomorrow morning at Dartmouth.  I'm not sure how much the thyroid medicine is working, so we'll see what the numbers say.  Her skin is very dry and she has rashes in places, and also the dryness is itchy so she scratches it, sometimes to bleeding.

Today is day +641!  What a big number, and we are thankful. We're coming up on two years since diagnosis and oh, how far she's come!

Pictures here.

Thank you all for caring about our little one big four-year-old!

"Let the Worms Decide" is an Epoch Times article that caught my eye first because of the author, Joel Salatin, and secondly because I knew what kind of worms he was talking about. We've been vermicomposting since 2009, and I know a little bit about what our worms will and will not eat.

Salatin begins with a story from a middle school program he visited in California, where students worked on a small farm half a day each week.

They had a worm box about 8 feet by 3 feet by 3 feet. Imagine an oversized coffin. If you want to see children get excited, show them a worm box. It’s mesmerizing with all the slithering, slimy worm activity....

One week, the farmers assigned homework: “Bring food on Monday.” The students dutifully brought some food: Twizzlers, Gummy Bears, Froot Loops—you get the idea. They placed their “food” in one end of the worm box. The farm ladies put different items in the other end: an apple, a pork chop, and a glob of yogurt, among other things. The following week, the students, eager to see what had transpired, ran to the box and opened it.

They pulled out their Gummy Bears, Twizzlers, and Froot Loops—untouched. When they tried to find the food items that the farmers had placed at the other end, all that food was gone. The day’s lesson was obvious: “Why would you want to eat something worms won’t even eat?” I'll bet a lot of young people made some different eating decisions that day.

Tongue not totally in cheek, Salatin proposes turning our expensive—and too-easily corrupted—food safety testing over to composting worms.

I’ve known and worked with many worm farmers over the years who explain how sensitive their “livestock” is to unacceptable items placed in their boxes. If they like the substance, they devour it readily. If they don’t, they move away and give it a wide berth.

If worms are that decisive and timely to determine healthy versus unhealthy things in their environment, why not ask them to share their preferences with all of us?

Worms don’t vote, don’t listen to lobbyists, don’t invest in Wall Street, or watch ads. They are about as objective a researcher as you could ever want. Goodness, they aren’t even swayed by money.

Here’s my idea: why not get a small plot of land—perhaps 5 acres—and set up 100 worm boxes? Everything Americans apply to the soil or put in our mouths would undergo the worm test for a week. What the worms ate would get a green light. What the worms didn’t eat would get a red light.

We could hire a couple of college students to run the program. If glyphosate is really innocuous, let’s see if the worms like it. If Coca-Cola is really nutritious, let’s see if the worms like it. Pour it in and see if they want to come to that area, or if they avoid it like the plague. If Red Dye 29 is a wonderful food additive, or monosodium glutamate (MSG), put them in the worm bed and let the worms vote.

Based on my experience, I see a few problems with this scenario, as I'm sure Salatin himself does. Worms will eat (and detoxify) some really nasty things, given enough time for their cohabiting microorganisms to break them down. The farmers who sold us our system have huge vermiculture setups in which they say the worms will devour battery acid in small quantities. Just because you can convince a worm to eat something, that doesn't mean I want it in my food. But the one-week test would probably take care of that problem. Maybe the worms will eventually eat something, if they get hungry enough, but they definitely have their favorites and, like a small child at the dinner table, will go for the good stuff first.

That same small child may reject his beets despite their certified goodness, and my worms will reject things I find great. Like homegrown, organic lemon balm. Or citrus peels. (Granted, I never tried them on the chocolate-covered variety.) Some worms don't like broccoli; fortunately, ours eat it right up. So it's not a foolproof system.

That said, Salatin makes an important point: If something we're doing causes natural systems to thrive, that could be a clue that we may be going in the right direction. On the other hand, a failing system is a red warning light that should give us pause.

Stay tuned for the results of my own experiment.  We have leftover Hallowe'en candy, including the above-mentioned Twizzlers.  I plan to make an offering to the worms and see what they have to say.

After spotting this image on Facebook, I tracked it down to (I think) the creator:  "Catturd" on X, made using Grok.  The caption reads,

Just spotted on I-95 headed to Florida.

As a Floridian who is grieving for the people of New York City, even the ones who voted for Mamdani, and now more than ever worried for our friend the NYC detective, I can't pass this up.

I do, however, agree with the X poster who pointed out that it would have been a much shorter trip to go to the state that has been named the #1 freest state in America.  (Florida was ranked #2.)  Maybe Lady Liberty is also tired of cold weather.

Working my way through my father's vast collection of writings, I occasionally find a gem I wish to share.

(Okay, so "vast" is a relative adjective, and perhaps an exaggeration—it's not as if I'm working through the letters of C. S. Lewis or something—but in personal terms it's accurate.)

This came from Dad's 1987 journal documenting his Elderhostel experience at Ferrum College, in Ferrum, Virginia. The program is now called Road Scholar, and no longer has the age restriction, but at that time it was primarily for those over 65, that being the age at which most people retired and could go on such adventures.

Also at the college were a group of gifted 6th graders from nearby Martinsville. They also were at the ice cream social and were told by their teachers to mix with the old folks, so it turned out to be a pleasant evening. I think the future governor of Virginia may have been amongst them. One of the women asked the boy about what they were doing, and then said, "I'll bet you didn't expect to see so many old folks here."

He replied, "I don't know, I haven't seen any yet."

Smart and wise.  I could envision voting for him.

Ahhhhh.  My mind and body are once again aligned with Nature.

It often pays to find the story behind the headline—or the social media post.

The Facebook blurb from our local library was annoying. Here's how it began:

1000 BOOKS BEFORE KINDERGARTEN: A round of applause for A----, who has read another 1,000 books before kindergarten—for the third time! On her way to becoming a young, brilliant scholar, Seminole County Public Libraries is proud to be part of A----’s journey as she grows her vocabulary, boosts her critical thinking, and enhances her cognitive development. 

I was annoyed, but looked further and discovered that our library has a program to encourage parents to read aloud to their preschool children. It's a little sad that adults need stickers as an incentive to read to their children, but we've all been there with some good habit we're trying to acquire. So it looks like a good thing.

What bothered me about the Facebook post was the implication that the achievement belonged to the child, and that she had actually read 3000 books. I've known a few kids who taught themselves to read before formal schooling, but that's not what is meant here. Maybe I'm being pedantic, but I don't think so: As valuable as being read to is, it is not the same as actually reading the words on the page.

I have a similar problem with adults who claim to have read a book when actually what they've done is listen to someone else read it to them. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy audio books and find them invaluable for absorbing content while doing repetitive work, exercising, and driving. But that's a different experience from reading, even for adults, and especially for a child who hasn't yet developed the skill of decoding print.

And I'm not sure it's a good idea to let a child believe he has done something worthy of great praise when the effort was on the part of his parents. Sort of like getting an A on a homework assignment done 95% by your dad. Or getting a Pulitzer Prize for something written by ChatGPT.

Curious about the quantity of books, I looked up my own reading tally. I have been keeping track of the books I read since 2010 (making note of the few that were audiobooks). I consider myself an avid reader, but it took me until mid-2024 to reach the 1000-book mark. So I commend all the parents who achieved that in reading to their preschool children.

Then again, from what I can tell, my just-turned-two granddaughter is probably nearing the 750 mark with Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Dance, including many repetitions of turning the pages herself and telling the story as she remembers it, complete with stomps and claps.

And no, I don't include books read to grandchildren in my own reading list, even though I don't limit myself to adult-level reading.

It is usual to speak in a playfully apologetic tone about one's adult enjoyment of what are called "children’s books." I think the convention a silly one. No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty—except, of course, books of information. The only imaginative works we ought to grow out of are those which it would have been better not to have read at all. — C. S. Lewis, On Stories

Although I don't agree completely with the practice, I'm more inclined to keep teens away from alcoholic beverages than from vegetable spiralizers. But here's a funny story about that.

A friend was at the grocery store, and decided she'd like a little wine with dinner. So she picked out a good one, and set the bottle in her cart. At check-out, she was asked to prove that she was older than 21. Now this friend looks quite young for her age, but she is older than I am, and I've seen more than seven decades. As the lady said in the spiralizer story, When did the world go completely mad? If the cashier can't tell at a glance that I'm not 20 years old, I don't want her counting my change. And if the store thinks she's incapable of such a determination, how is it they trust her to make any decisions at all?

I don't know why my friend didn't have her driver's license with her at the time, but she didn't, and reluctantly decided to forgo her dinnertime libation. But here's where the story gets interesting.

As many of us do in such situations, it wasn't until after she was done shopping that she thought of what she should have said. Because she was not alone in the store.

Hang on a second. My grandson will buy it for me.

Then again, she probably wouldn't have wanted to get him in trouble for buying alcohol for seniors.

On this 610th anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt, it's time to reprise (again) Kenneth Branagh's version of Henry V's famous speech.  (Shakespeare's version, that is.)

I publish this here because I know there are people with whom it will resonate, although it apparently runs contrary to the experience of the majority. Why else would they be so anxious to banish silence from our lives?

A prime example is our water aerobics classes at the local community therapeutic pool. The warm-water exercise is worth the struggle for me, but it is indeed a struggle, every time. For some reason the instructors believe that people exercise better when accompanied by loud music and a headache-inducing drum beat. We've managed to find the instructors who will at least keep the volume down to where I no longer have to wear earplugs, but the incessant noise and throbbing beat continue.

To my fellow classmates who may think I am rude, unfriendly, or merely unhappy, I don't mean to be any of the above. But please don't tell me to smile. It takes so much effort to fight the sensory assault that social politeness is often a casualty.

With one exception: All too rarely, we play games with small beach balls: bouncing, hitting, throwing, challenging just ourselves or in competition with others. It's not unkindly competitive—half the fun is figuring out how to include everyone of varying skill and physical ability levels—but it's exciting, and when we're doing that I manage to tune out the music almost completely. I have no idea why. It's the most active of the physical work we do in those classes, and yet it is the only time I feel relaxed and free.

Often I even smile.

When was the last time you were threatened by a gang of thugs wielding spiralizers? Apparently that is a danger in the United Kingdom. Either that, or the chefs' union is lobbying hard to keep teens from trying to break into their business. Or possibly Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber have more power than I thought.

This story, posted by a woman in the UK, popped up on Facebook, and I quickly copied the text. I regret not catching the image, too, as that would have shown how small, unpowered, and insignificant the device in question is. But you'll get the idea.

I know many things are going nuts in the UK, though I don't know anyone personally who can vouch for them. But the following story, if it is true—and at least it has the ring of truth and not clickbait—shows that at least in one area they are even crazier than America, which is saying a lot.

What I want to know is… When did the world go completely mad? Did I miss it?

Let me explain…

Yesterday, I was shopping in a well-known store with a red and white logo With my 10-year-old son.

Among the impulse purchases were a red nose day Tshirt for my son, a gift for the teacher and this lovely spiralizer/vegetable grater for me.

My helpful son unloaded the items onto the checkout desk while I removed my purse from my handbag, at which point the young lady on the desk said “I’m sorry, I can’t sell you that.”

She proceeded to explain that as the spiralizer was not to be sold to anyone under 18 and my son was the one who placed it on the counter, it was deemed that the vegetable cutting device was for him.

Bewildered, I said ”but it’s a spiralizer, and quite obviously it’s for me.”

She refused the sale.

I asked if I could purchase it separately.

She refused the sale.

I asked if I could speak to the manager and they could make allowances for such an obvious fault with the rules.

The manager refused the sale.

I told the manager it would probably be a good idea to put some sort of signage up to let customers know that minors should not be unloading shopping to help their parents.

She obviously misunderstood as she pointed out the signage on the packaging that clearly says “Do not sell to under 18s”.

I left the store confused and a little perturbed and resigned myself to a lifetime of chunky vegetables in my recipes.

You can however all rest safe in the knowledge you will never be faced with a vegetable shredding 10-year-old wearing a Feathers McGraw T-shirt roaming the streets of Cumbria… all thanks to the vigilant staff of the West Cumbrian store.

You can't sell a spiralizer to a 17-year-old in the UK?

I'm assuming a much-more-potentially-dangerous kitchen knife would meet with similar restrictions. At what age are people allowed to cook on that side of the Atlantic? How about to wash dishes, which would undoubtedly include knives.

I don't remember when I started helping in the kitchen, nor when our own children did, but I know that most of our grandchildren started learning how to use kitchen knives at the age of two (well supervised, of course), and by four were reliable helpers in cutting up vegetables for a salad. I know that's early, even for America, but if David Farragut could command a ship as a pre-teen (there is some difference of opinion as to whether he was 11 or 12), surely it is a bit excessive to restrict the use of sharp objects to those 18 and older.

I've been saying for a long time—not that it stops me from using their services—that Amazon has too much power. It has its fingers in too many pies. Today that became glaringly obvious as one by one we discovered that things we take for granted are not working because Amazon failed. (And at this writing is still causing problems, despite premature assurances early this morning.)

A friend noted the lack of Wordle and Starbucks. I missed DuoLingo, GreatCoursesPlus, Hoopla, and of course Amazon itself—the last because without Hoopla I couldn't get to the book I'd borrowed and I thought, forget it, I'll just buy it for my Kindle and...oh, wait....

Fortunately, everything big that I needed today has so far been working. Including writing this post, because Lime Daley is not dependent on Amazon. May more companies discover that freedom!

Here are the top people in line to succeed to the office if the President is unable to perform his duties. The list goes on for quite a while, but I'm only listing the top six.

1. Vice President (JD Vance)
2. Speaker of the House (Mike Johnson)
3. President Pro Tempore of the Senate (Chuck Grassley)
4. Secretary of State (Marco Rubio)
5. Secretary of the Treasury (Scott Bessent)
6. Secretary of Defense (Pete Hegseth) (I know it's "Secretary of War," but hey, I'm a Conservative now. I still think of the body of water west of us as the Gulf of Mexico, and sing all the old words to hymns instead of the modern, bowlderized ones.)

Why is this interesting? It makes it obvious what a nightmare Charlie Kirk's memorial service must have been for the Secret Service and others responsible for safety concerns, and why security to get into the stadium was so incredibly strict. Trump, Vance, Johnson, Rubio, and Hegseth were all there. The president, and four of the top six in line of succession. Not to mention a fair number of other political figures, and many others who now know they are at risk of assassination for speaking their opinions out loud.

For some reason this makes me think of a couple who both worked where Porter did when we lived in Boston, back in 2001. They had a standing policy that whenever they flew out of town, they took separate airplanes. That may seem excessive, or make you ask if they never rode in the same automobile—but it is the reason why in September of that year their children were bereaved, but not orphaned.

The full list can be found here. If, like me, you wonder about the order of the Cabinet officers—for example, why the Secretary of Education is considered more likely to be a good president than the Secretary of Homeland Security—it's because the order is determined by when the agencies were created. Or maybe because educators are more experienced with herding cats; I don't know.

I'd never heard of the Church Dog books nor the church that they're associated with, but family is family, and our choir family is so proud of the young daughter of two of our singers. Our director knows a lot that's going on in the Central Florida music, church, and theatrical scenes; he recommended that she audition for the Church Dog music video that's just been released—and she won the solo part! I don't think her parents would mind my mentioning her by name, but I'm not taking any chances. If she becomes famous, I'll link to this in an "I knew her when" post.  

It's not exactly my kind of music, but she's my kind of kid.

I see a lot of people—not only in America but from around the world—saying, or displaying on t-shirts, or social media posts, and the like, "I am Charlie Kirk." I have absolutely no problem with that and appreciate the impulse.

I do wonder what the French are thinking, since theirs was the first "Je suis Charlie"; it's hard to believe that was ten years ago.

Although I understand the sentiment, I can't at the moment bring myself to join in. It feels far too audacious, like saying, "I am Mother Teresa." The more I see of Charlie Kirk in action, the more I know that I will never be as energetic, motivated, intelligent, knowledgeable, patient, calm under pressure, forgiving, nor as loving of my opponents as he was.

I am not Charlie Kirk.

But watching him does make me want to be a better me.

Charlie died with incomplete work but without unfinished business. — Erika Kirk, 9/22/25

I think that's a great epitaph, and I'd love to earn it for my own tombstone.

You don't want to complete your work in this life—otherwise, why continue to live? But unfinished business is a very different thing.

For example, genealogical research is never completed. There's always far more to find than time in which to find it. However, leaving your work so incomplete and disorganized that after you die no one can take it over and profit from it—that's unfinished business.

I could say the same thing about the large collection of family photos that await my attention.

And several other projects.

And to think there are people who believe that being retired means time hangs heavy on one's hands!