Trump, Yet Again

Every time I think Trump, the president in name only, cannot outdo himself in unadulterated asshole-ism, I am proven wrong by the Dumpster himself.

It is Saturday morning, Sept. 30, as I write this, and word of Trump’s Twitter tantrum against San Juan, Puerto Rico Mayor Carmen Yulín Cruz is just coming in. This is a woman who has been seen on national and international television over the last day or two, pleading for help, in the aftermath of the catastrophe of Hurricane Maria.

“We are dying, and you are killing us with the inefficiency,” she said. “I am begging, begging anyone that can hear us, to save us from dying.”

Can it get any more direct than that?

The “you” she referred to is, presumably, Trump. And surprise surprise, that cretin couldn’t take this justifiable criticism. “The Mayor of San Juan, who was very complimentary only a few days ago, has now been told by the Democrats that you must be nasty to Trump,” he tweeted this morning.

So she’s a nasty woman. Nasty.

I should not be surprised. I’m not surprised. This man has repeatedly demonstrated, with his own words and deeds, his complete lack of humanity. There is no point recounting any of it.

As I understand it, the main issue in Puerto Rico right now is distribution. Nevertheless - assuming you don’t have a truck you can spare, and get to Puerto Rico - I encourage you to make a monetary donation. I don’t know the best place to donate; I don’t trust most of them. The Red Cross reportedly helped Josef Mengele and other Nazi war criminals escape Germany.

But of course, this is not the time for such concerns. The Sierra Club claims 100% of donations made to their site will go to hurricane recovery. I made a small donation. I’ll trust them and hope for the best.

You can Google “Hurricane Maria Puerto Rico donations” or something similar. Or, you can check out the Sierra Club site:

Sierra Club donation site

Trump’s idiocy:

Unmarked Grave

There is no headstone on my father’s grave, only a simple marker thrust in the ground. No name, no dates of birth or death, this generic marker merely implies his service in the Navy. It looks plastic, although I did not touch it.

He’s been dead for a year. The lack of a headstone, I am told, is only temporary, the predictable consequence of red tape. It is the inaction of officialdom, which is footing the bill.

It’s a quaint little boneyard, tranquil even; a setting the words “final resting place” might conjure. I paid my first visit there recently. Or, my first since last year’s funeral. My father (or his earthly remains) is spending eternity at the foot of a gentle slope alongside headstones marked Kennedy, Manz, and Anger. This last is surrounded by plants with long spiny leaves resembling a strain of yucca. They seemed out of place, more appropriate to an arid, western climate. (Perhaps you can tell I don’t know much about plant life.)

I remembered approximately where the gravesite was, but still wandered around for five or ten minutes, searching. Finally some guy approached me. “Can I help you?”

He’d pulled up in a car a few minutes earlier, as I ambled among rows of headstones. The cemetery was otherwise deserted. As I strolled, I reminded myself to respect the dead and not step directly on anyone’s grave.

The guy turned out to be a member of the cemetery’s Board of Directors. He guided me to the grave I sought.

There are a couple of large stones a few feet from my father’s grave. The site did not need weeding or watering, so I took a seat on one. I did not speak to or commune with my dad’s spirit. I just soaked in the atmosphere, reflecting on a long and full life that had been lived, and enjoyed, and now was over.

Read the eulogy

Grocery List

This month marks the one-year anniversary of my father’s death.

I’m heading back to the Detroit area for a few days soon. That’s where he lived much of his life, and that’s where he died. Aside from the funeral, it will be the first time I’ve been to his grave.

My father was creeping up on 89 years old when he breathed his last. His health and mobility had declined dramatically over a period of less than two years. I can’t be sure, but I think he was ready to go.

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I don’t have much in the way of fatherly memorabilia. But most of his stuff remains in the house his widow still occupies; maybe I’ll be able to pick something up.

On several occasions I’ve had to rummage through the personal effects of someone who recently died, and been encouraged to choose something as a keepsake. Sifting through a lifetime’s worth of someone’s stuff: what a strange experience. Once was for my paternal grandmother, and the other my maternal grandfather - oddly symmetrical, in a way.

In the case of my grandmother, I chose a small cut glass clock that didn’t work. Honestly, I did not want that artifact, but was pressed to choose something. It has resided on my daughter’s dresser ever since.

From my grandfather’s stuff, I chose an old union booklet. This struck some as a little peculiar, but it had, and still has, an odd value to me. He belonged to the Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America. His dues were all paid up.

A few years later I came into possession of one of his awls. I’m not a carpenter, but this tool is perfect for rounding out the inside of brake and shifter cable housing on bikes. They compress when cut.

What about my dad?

There was no great purge of worldly possessions after his death (at least, not when I was around). There isn’t much I want, frankly.

I already value a slip of paper I found tucked into one of my books (Ironweed). I must have shoved it in there as a bookmark once, during a visit. It is a most trivial thing: my dad’s grocery list from four or five years ago. But it means something to me, perhaps because it is so commonplace.

At the end of the day, though, it is just a piece of paper. The physical objects our forebears leave behind may serve as memory triggers, but far more important is how parents are imprinted on our psyches. For most of us, they are encoded into our brains. We carry them in our heads, cradle to grave – and that is what matters most.