A God of Silence

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Art Green, author of Radical Judaism. Zoom technology. Brother Mark’s insights about his work in Saudi Arabia. Gertie’s visible improvement. Murdoch. The Kep. Rigel, who prances in from the outside like she’s 3, not 11. Kate’s rebound from a tough early afternoon.

Intellectual vertigo.

“What could it possibly mean to speak of Torah as “God’s word” or “revelation” in the religious context I am offering here? I challenge myself yet again, as I do frequently, asking whether my mystical language is not merely an obfuscation of my disbelief. God is Y-H-W-H, the wholeness of Being, the energy that makes for existence, the engine that drives the evolutionary process. This is a God of silence…” p. 92, Radical Judaism, Art Green.

The vibration in Art’s challenge to himself is what I call intellectual vertigo. I feel it while reading his work, while contemplating the unusual congruence between his well-formulated, honest ideas and my own less systematic thoughts over the past 65 years.

I’ve pushed away the embrace of all major religious traditions. I know some of you have, too.

Modernism offers the empirical method as its intellectual scythe. Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, Christopher Hutchins all wielded this scythe, believing it allowed them to cut through the obfuscation that Green fears and find nothing. This modernist versus religion cage match has resulted in a situation not unlike our current political one. Two sides, fearing and loathing the other, generating quantities of heat, but little light.

Step through the door of post-modernism, however, and a new range of possibilities occur. Post-modernism, to those of us like Art Green, raised firmly in the arms of modernism, can seem dizzying. Vertigo inducing. Art leaps the uncanny valley between Newton and Niels Bohr with mysticism.

The confidence once placed in Newton’s thought was as certain as certain could be. He deployed the scientific method, mathematics, and logic like fine scalpels, flensing the musculature, then the organ systems of our cosmos for all to see.

Einstein shook his electric hair. Not quite. Then Bohr and others developed the Copenhagen Consensus, describing a sub-microscopic world buzzing with uncertainty, with probability rather than certainty, with spooky action at a distance entailed its thought. Classical physics (modernity) and quantum mechanics (post-modernity) have not yet reconciled.

Those of us shaped as religious persons in the modern era have also failed to reconcile the older, confident dogmas of the many religions to the newer, science-affirming ways of understanding. One avenue for this reconciliation is an understanding of language as a mediator which stands between each human and core reality.

In this case any language, including the Torah, the Upanishads, the Diamond Sutra, the Tao Te Ching, the Gospel of Mark or Matthew or John or Luke, does not “reveal,” but covers truth. That is, since language is the way that our thinking manages all data, sensory data included, words and letters are a real, unbreachable (perhaps) barrier between us and reality.

When the religious instinct (I don’t know what else to call it.) imbibes from this stream of post-modernist thought, a possibility occurs not available in modernism. In modernism we’re stuck with Wittgenstein, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” (Tractatus 7). If there is a reality behind the screen of language, we can’t know it, so we must be silent.

But. If we make the post-modern leap and accept a broader view of evidence, including our heart and Big History*, we can make out, as Green does, a unifier, “…the wholeness of Being, the energy that makes for existence, the engine that drives the evolutionary process.” It is this wholeness of being with which we interact in a mysterious way.

As a side note, I keep wanting to change Green’s metaphysics as I read his book. Key example above, the wholeness of being. I’d prefer the wholeness of becoming. He goes on in the next phrase to talk about the energy that makes for existence, for example.

This mystical dip into the silent world behind language, or before language, allows us contact with the Becoming, the energy that makes for existence. This is the God of Silence. Silent, yes, but in possession of all the agency that there is.

The question then becomes, if you track with me this far, how does a God of Silence communicate? How does this most ancient (or, timeless) motive force speak across the quiet. And, across the barrier thrown up by language?

This becomes the central religious question, is the central religious question. Not sure I’m fully on board with Green’s answer, but it’s a good shot anyhow. Another post and I’ll elaborate.

* “Big History is an academic discipline which examines history from the Big Bang to the present. Big History resists specialization, and searches for universal patterns or trends. It examines long time frames using a multidisciplinary approach based on combining numerous disciplines from science and the humanities, and explores human existence in the context of this bigger picture.” David Christian. (I corresponded with Christian for a while after listening to a Great Courses class he taught.)

Doggy Detention

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: The Apple repair store guy. The offensive line size guy at Broadway Motors who, after putting on black plastic gloves, got my chainsaw working. No charge. Jeffco animal control. Yes, really. Ruby, in whom I slipped through Denver with ease. Dr. Palmini and Sano Vet. Cephalosporin*. Gertie.

Kep is on doggy home detention. No ankle bracelet, but our solemn vow to not take him anywhere for 10 days. I think it’s a mistake; I’m pretty sure it was Murdoch that bit Antonio, but it was chaotic. Antonio had to report the dog bite and Jeffco animal control followed up. The law is there to protect other dogs and people from a potentially rabid or otherwise sick dog. Can’t deny the value of that, especially up here where we also have wildlife to take into account.

We paid Antonio’s expenses at Urgent Care, though Joe will reimburse us. Antonio is a good guy. He’ll come back. This time he suggested we use muzzles. Hmm. Good idea.

Meanwhile for both Kep and Murdoch the whole incident is so last decade. Dog’s shrug off yesterday, the last hour, the last minute. Today. Right now. That’s where they live. After the inside fight where I got bit, I walked Murdoch calmly up the stairs with no leash. The fight was over.

In other doggy news Gertie is only on three legs now. Her left rear apparently got knicked in that same fight. We took her into Sano, our Vet Dr. Palmini suggested an x-ray. She has either a very severe bone infection, probably not from the fight, or bone cancer. She’s our oldest, beating out Rigel by a year at 12. At these ages dogs can begin a decline.

The cephalosporin should knock back an infection, at least make us see some improvement in a week. If it does, then she’ll stay on the antibiotics for a month. If it doesn’t, we’ll need to do a biopsy for cancer.

SeoAh is coming for a month. She arrives Sunday. The Coronavirus has Asia scared. Singapore has had a few cases. And, their household belongings which Joseph hurried to get ready for the movers by December 19th, have not arrived yet. Plus the issues with Murdoch. She will be a great help, will calm things down for a while. Much needed. And, appreciated. What a joy it is to have her in our life.

In further good news Kate is bouncy and energetic. At least compared to the last couple of years. Her trajectory is on the upswing and that makes me so happy. Just seeing her smiling, her voice without stress, her face without a grimace makes all this other seem incidental.

* The aerobic mold which yielded cephalosporin C was found in the sea near a sewage outfall in Su Siccu, by Cagliari harbour in Sardinia, by the Italian pharmacologist Giuseppe Brotzu in July 1945. wiki


Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Oh, man. Antonio the dog trainer came. Murdoch bit him. Shit.

Antonio is a young man, maybe 30. A lumberjack or hipster beard, hiking boots, jeans, a blue wool jacket. He has an easy smile and wore what I recognized as a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy hat. My kinda guy.

He met all of our dogs though Gertie held back because her left rear leg has given her trouble the last couple of days. Rigel went up to him as he came in the door. Snuggled up to her new bff. Kep came over and sniffed him after vigorously announcing his arrival.

Time to meet Murdoch, who was outside. I let him in the sewing room, the door closed to the rest of the house. Antonio put Murdoch through sit, heel, then down. Murdoch didn’t move. Antonio said most dogs don’t like down because it’s submissive. He hit the e-collar once on a very low setting and Murdoch immediately went down.

We talked about the situations that had prompted a fight. Murdoch seemed to be the aggressor, I said, and wouldn’t stop when Kep rolled over. The second fight they came in Kep in the lead and Murdoch behind growling. Antonio said that sounded like Kep was the aggressor.

We agreed to try Kep and Murdoch outside. I got Antonio a leash for Murdoch, but couldn’t find one for Kep. Antonio said that was ok, so I came out with Kep by my side. Kep turned away from Murdoch, not approaching. Murdoch growled.

We moved around the yard, keeping a distance. Murdoch gradually calmed down. It was this kind of desensitization that Antonio thought could work. Feed them each on one side of a glass door. Walks in the back. Hopefully calm them down enough so they could be inside together.

Antonio thought they could come closer, so I approached with Kep. Murdoch dove for Kep. Antonio fell on Murdoch, but Kep had come up to defend himself and in the struggle one of them bit Antonio. Through his jacket. Just like mine. A big gash, maybe 3 inches by 3/4’s.

Inside. My wife’s a doctor. Blood dripping on the deck, the tile. His arm over the same sink where mine was on Thursday. Kate took care of him, bandaged him, ironically, with some of the supplies given to us at the Swedish E.R.

He’s in tears, agonized, shaking. What to do? Called his wife. Got a time to go to the Conifer Medical Center. He’s gone. Don’t know anymore.

Jesus Christ.

That Great Wakin’ Up Mornin’

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Monday gratefuls: All my wounds have closed up except for one. Antonio the dog trainer comes today. Great pictures from Joe and SeoAh. They look very happy. Kate’s new feeding tube. The dawn. The mountain spirits. Shinto. Kami. Miyazaki. Spirited Away.

TGIM. Thank god it’s Monday. All those worker bees heading into Denver and points down the hill. Less traffic up here for us old folks. Even after all these years out of the work force, Mondays find me with a bit more energy, ready to go. The weekends, especially Sunday, feel slower, like time to get domestic chores done. Old patterns.

Kobe Bryant. Dead in the fog. And his daughter, Gigi. Shocking. 41.

But, not as shocking as the orange tumor on our democracy. The kewpie doll of political malfeasance. Hit him with a soft ball. Bounces back up. Hit him with a hardball. Bounces back up. Hit him with so many balls thrown by himself. Bounces back up. Gotta admit I don’t get it. His bad judgment, his callous disregard for people, facts, history aren’t enough. His not disguised meanness of spirit, his habit of berating those with whom he disagrees, firing those closest to him. A mess of a man. And, our President.

In Resurrection: Ertugrul they are fond of day follows night as a metaphor. Ertugrul fights, as the translators have it, the cruel. Just, the cruel. The oppressors. Our state, as did the Seljuk state of Ertugrul’s time, needs a resurrection moment.

States do rise and fall, often from the corruption and incompetence of their leaders and not from foreign invasion. A haunted country. The ghosts of Nathan Bedford Forrest, of Father Coughlin, of Benedict Arnold flit around our body politic, pouring their darkness into so many hearts. While we allow these once dead ideas life, the better angels weep.

Haven’t thought about it, but Trump has presided over the years of our discontent here on Shadow Mountain. His soul sickness infecting life everywhere. No, he’s not responsible for our challenges, our troubles, but having him in office hasn’t lifted us up either.

Yet. I can feel it, the new day for our country. It’s trying to rise, vault over the Front Range, light up the Continental Divide, break the grip of this dark night of our collective soul. It will not come from politics, though they will reflect it as the moon does the sun. It will come when those of us, no matter our liberal or conservative or radical inclinations, say this is not the way forward. We can no longer see ourselves represented as the cruel.

I have, like so many, a fondness for our great ideals. For the notion, however shaky, that we are all equal before the law. For the U.S. as a beacon of freedom, a place for the teeming masses yearning to be free. For a country where the voiceless can be heard. A nation dedicated to these truths life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is these ideals, the ohr of our collective and individual souls, that I can feel stirring. We cannot let this St. John of the Cross moment be without its redemptive turn. We will not. I feel sure.

Dick Clark

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Sunday gratefuls: Healing on my wrists and hands. Kate’s feeding tube back in place. Again. Ruby and her seat heater, her dual climate controls. Nice yesterday. The loft. A place to be me, to take in the matters of the last three weeks or so. Kate for finding this house with the loft in waiting.

Well. Sometimes the hits just keep on coming. Dick Clark.

Friday night Kate’s feeding tube popped out again. Geez. I put it back in so the stoma would not close, then we spent most of yesterday in the E.R. at Porter Adventist. (never again there) After much dithering by a newbie e.r. doc, a new tube got inserted. Took over 4 hours for a five minute procedure. The place was more like a morgue than a hospital. Very, very quiet. Our internist’s practice found it for us.

The feeding tube has gotten Kate’s weight up to the 100 pound range, ensured her good nutrition which she can’t achieve by mouth any longer, and been a much, much less fussy tech than the pic line feedings. However, still with its own quirks.

The first time it popped out was shocking for both of us. By this one, the third, we just want it put back in and let us go home, please. Also, we’d like it to stop popping out.

Medical matters have inundated us. Some critical, most not. We’re managing, staying ahead, but barely. Wish there was a magic bullet, but I don’t see one. Keep schlepping. Keep each other strong. Do what needs doing.

A plateau here would be nice. Let things calm down. Get our breath. Not sure if that’s gonna happen right now.

The Murdoch Problem

Winter and the Leap Year Moon

Saturday gratefuls: Dinner at Twin Forks with Kate last night. Pint of cookie dough ice cream. Clouds of the front moving in from the east. Augmentin. Kate’s improvements. Her smile and her laugh. Gertie. Kep. Rigel. Murdoch. Dogs. Joe and SeoAh. Diane. Mark. Mary. Marilyn’s call.

Hands and wrists still in gauzy bandages. They come off today. The stitches are in until next Friday. A few aches. Not much pain unless I try to open a door or a dog food bin. In problem solving mode now. Antonio will come on Monday. Hope he has some good ideas. After that, it will be time for a talk with Joe and SeoAh.

Kate suggested, and it’s a good idea, that I talk with the Akita rescue folks here, see if there’s a foster situation that might be available for Murdoch. A big, big step for us and even more for Joe and SeoAh. Reluctant. But. Also reluctant, opposed to more E.R. trips.

If I looked at us from the outside, I’d say we don’t know what we’re doing. We do, it just isn’t going well.

Got sorta down yesterday. Mostly over my commitment to Joe and SeoAh. Wondering if I’m going to have to back out of it. That feels awful, so I hope not. Decided problem solving was more useful though the feeling lingers.

Kate saw that and took me out to dinner again. This time to Twin Forks, a fancier place. On Friday nights they serve the yabba dabba do cut of prime rib. It’s huge. We didn’t have it. Scallops for Kate, beef medallions for me. The energy of the place helped. Talking and laughing together. Also helped.

At least we’re not seeing life from the seat cushion of a recliner.


Winter and the Waning Crescent of the Future Moon

Friday gratefuls: Josie, the nurse, and William, the doctor at the Swedish E.R. Lidocaine. Kate and her bandaging skills. That neither Murdoch nor Kepler got badly injured. Sandy, who came today, just in time to clean my blood off the tile.

So, yes. It happened again. This time a door didn’t shut and Murdoch, who was outside, came in. When I saw him and Kepler together, I said, “Oh, no!” Shortly they were at each other. I don’t even remember getting in it with them. Not sure I did. But one of them got my left wrist, another my right. 6 more stitches and lots of less deep lacerations, plus spurting blood. Looked like a murder scene. Tile, fortunately.

Leaves me feeling like a failure. Taking care of Murdoch for Joe and SeoAh. They’re gone for a year. What will we do? A very tough place to be.

Just got off the phone with Antonio, a dog trainer. He’s going to come by on Monday for a consultation. See what we can do. He said it’s tough after they’ve already been into it. He’s right. Hope he’s got some good ideas. It obviously isn’t working as things are.

Then there’s an inevitable talk with Joe and SeoAh. What can we do? Yecchhh.

Both incidents have occurred right after we’ve gotten home together. Yesterday, Mussar, The first time, after Kate’s g-tube got replaced. The dogs are excited and we’re distracted.

Slept fine. Hands don’t hurt. Much. Lots of gauze, steri-strips, and the neat row of stitches. Antibiotics. Lot of exhaustion though.

Right after getting bit, when the blood still spurted onto the floor, I felt faint. Skin clammy. Scared me seeing all that bright red vital fluid escaping its container. Holding my wrist over the sink, I hollered to Kate.

She was blaring the fight extinguisher at the two combatants. Loud. Made no difference at all. Good idea, though.

When I got to the E.R., they asked me where I’d been seen first. Both hands were wrapped in paper towel and coban. A professional job. Oh, I have a doctor in the house.

The drive in, the pain, the treatment, the drive home. Long sleep. Till 9. Still worn out. Had to go to King Sooper to get the augmentin. Back home. Nap right now.

Watch and Learn

Winter and the Future Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Alan is back from the Bahamas. Our regular breakfasts. Rabbi Jamie’s clear explanation about Judaism as a vehicle for mystical consciousness. Our Thursday afternoon mussar class. A lot of good friends in that one. MVP tonight. Friends there, too.

Got the new vegetable chopper. Ready for the next round of Israeli salad or pico de gallo.

I’m on episode 73 out of the 80 in the final season of Resurrection: Ertugrul. That means I’ve watched a whole lot of episodes. I’ve enjoyed the storylines, the immersion in an imagined Turkic tribal culture, and the sets, costumes. Are the plot holes in it big enough to swing a sword through without hitting anything? Oh, yeah. Is some of it melodramatic? Hmm. Yes. But as a story of a people committed to a cause, suffering for it, and succeeding, a good one.

Read a NYT article yesterday about M.B.Z., Mohammed bin-Zayed, ruler of the United Arab Emirates. His father, Zayed, was a pluralist and a believer in a tolerant, peaceful Islam. He opposed Islamists of all stripes. Mohammed, after a flirtation with Islamists, experienced 9/11 and converted to his father’s opinion.

MBZ sounds like a contemporary Erugrul. He has a particular perspective on Islam and has put his Emirates resources behind it. He fought the Islamists in the UAE, finding those who collabarated with bin Laden, three of the attackers were Emiratis. He had 200 Emiratis arrested and about 1,600 hundred foreigners.

He has lifted up women and the poor. He has fought in other nations for a more tolerant form of Islam. His troops are in Libya right now and have been a major force in Yemen.

Though the Saudi state is, as the journalist Jamal Khashoggi, said, “…the mother and father of political Islam.”, MBZ mentors MBS, Mohammed bin Salman, the Saudi Crown Prince accused of ordering Khashoggi’s death. MBZ wants to temper the Wahhabi stream of Islam, the one married to the founding of the Saudi state and radical in its political ideas. Wahhabi funded madrasa around the Middle East and elsewhere in the Islamic world spread its violent propensities.

Resurrection: Ertugrul showcases the Islamic love of a strong leader, a Prophet, a Caliph, an Emperor who loves his people and will do whatever it takes to keep them safe and prosperous. MBZ, like Ertugrul, has an affiliation for Sufi’s and is a Sunni.

Americans, as democrats (small d) and individualists, children of the Enlightenment, will find both Ertugrul and MBZ, and MBS for that matter, suffocating. Like the clan chieftain he was Ertugrul relied on the leaders of his tribe, beys, for authority in decision making. They met in council and debated issues before the Bey, bey of the whole Kayi tribe, Ertugrul in the later episodes, made a final decision.

The councils were advisory, though. The Bey’s decision was the one that mattered. Same with MBZ and MBS. There’s a lot paternalism and patriarchy running through Resurrection: Ertugrul and the worlds of MBZ and MBS.

Autocrats. Much like Egypt, Syria, Iran. Erdogan in Turkey. Some benevolent. Some not. I suspect much of Resurrection comes from contemporary fantasies for a return to the noble Caliphate of Harun al-Rashid. It certainly glorifies the mujaheddin, the warrior of jihad, of Allah’s Holy War. And it glorifies the strong central authority figure, Ertugrul. It could be seen as propaganda for Islamist extremists though I don’t believe that’s its intent.

I’ll miss the antics of Bamsi, the ax of Turgut, the strong swordarm and wisdom of Ertugrul. Finishing this week. Wow.

Yo, U.S.A., You Late!

Winter and the Future Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Mountain View Waste. Kate’s good humor. Rigel following the treat to bed. Cool weather. The waning crescent moon. All the stars in the sky. All the water in the ocean. The water cycle. The lakes of Minnesota. The mountains of Colorado.

Didn’t write about MLK.

When Joseph got his bars as a second Lieutenant, I drove down to Maxwell AFB to be there. Maxwell is outside Montgomery, Alabama.

I made three pilgrimages on that trip. The first to Dexter Baptist Church, only steps away from the Alabama State Capitol. In his 1963 inaugural address in that Capitol then governor George Wallace said, “…segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.”

MLK was the pastor at the Dexter Baptist Church, 1954-1960, and organized the Mongtomery Bus Boycott in the basement. To have done that with the state government of Alabama literally looking over you must have been a courageous act for all who participated.

The second stop on my pilgrimage was the Southern Poverty Law Center which has a building just behind and uphill from Dexter Baptist Church. Outside of the modest modern headquarters is a Maya Lin designed Civil Rights Memorial. A large sheet of black marble, top of a sliced in half cone, has engraved on it names of martyrs for the civil rights movement and a chronology of the movement. A sheet of water flows across it all, coming from a fountain in the middle.

In her minimalist style, the other primary part of the sculpture is a black marble wall that has on it MLK’s paraphrase of Amos 5:24: (We will not be satisfied)…until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

These two American institutions, Dexter Baptist and the Southern Poverty Law Center, were and are pillars of fire illuminating racism and burning it out where they can. It surprised to me feel so close to American radical justice while able to see the bright white colonnade of the Alabama capitol.

The third stop on my pilgrimage came after I left Montgomery. I went to Selma. Crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge. On that bridge, on March 7, 1965, MLK and many, many others encountered state police and city police, hidden on the east by the upward curve of the bridge. Bloody Sunday showed up on television screens across America and helped cement support for the civil rights movement.

In research for a novel I’m currently writing I looked up Edmund Pettus. Not only was he a Brigadier General in the Confederate Army and a U.S. Senator, Pettus was also the Grand Dragon of the Alabama KKK.

When I parked in downtown Selma to walk around… Nah, here’s what I said on June 19th, 2008:

“Yo, Minnesota!  You late.”  Said, on the high sidewalk in Selma, an African man of indeterminate middle age, salt and pepper beard, hair frizzed out, wearing a red shirt.  “”bout time you got down South, North.”

“Yeah, about 30 years too late,” I said, revealing my inner hope that I’m about 15 younger than I really am.

He was cheerful and continued his discussion with a smile and allusions to the Mennonites and some biblical tribes, but I didn’t get it all.  He was what in former times would have been called a character.

When you consider Charlottesburg, when you consider Monday in Richmond, when you consider the anti-immgration policies, when David Duke says, “He’s implementing our policies.”, when a close Presidential advisor admits to his white supremacy convictions, then, why then, we might say to the whole country, “Yo, U.S.A., you late.”

Broken. Replaced.

Winter and the Future Moon

Tuesday gratefuls: Hot water in San Francisco! Diane’s recommendation of “Getting Open.” Sleep. Rest. Feeling rejuvenated. The U.S. grocery store. The NYT for endorsing Amy and Elizabeth. Blizzaks. AWD on Ruby. Healing from the dog bite. Almost done.

Cooked last night. Deep fried chicken chunks from a deli chicken. Coated with bread crumbs. Surprisingly good. Broke our vegetable chopper, too. A second time. I prefer hand tools in the kitchen for food prep. Knives, choppers, dicers, zesters. We have a mandolin somewhere and I want to find it. Just ordered a Swedish chopper, made of metal. More durable.

Broke the chopper making a version of Israeli salad. It was the onions that did it in. Well, not the onion, but me, pressing down quick and hard on the onion. Little blades popped off the cutting grid. Not supposed to happen. Got the salad, diced onions (by knife), tomatoes, cucumber, and a generous sprinkling of cilantro. Some lime juice. Some Italian seasoning.

But. I was also gonna warm up the cabbage and potatoes in the microwave. Put them in the microwave at the start. Kate’s taught me to get all the ingredients out before I begin. Forgot about the potatoes and the cabbage. Still in the microwave this morning.

Oh, yeah. Finally got the microwave installed. After the first appointment, I had to have an electrician come out to create a wall socket for it, then reschedule the installation. Happened Saturday. Kate is very happy. She can reheat her coffee. Hot coffee and the crossword in the morning make Kate a happy gal. I’m indifferent to coffee temperature. Cold. Hot. Meh. Not a gourmet.

Spent time yesterday on another modern chore. Cutting up boxes. We get our dogfood through chewy.com. Great service. Reasonable prices. Free shipping. And large cardboard boxes. Bought some airtight dogfood containers, too, through Amazon. Really big boxes. As I’ve noted before, the home has become a shipping and receiving department. All those cardboard boxes that used to get cut up at the warehouse or in the back of the store are now in living rooms across America. Or, garages.

Anyone rural appreciates the chance to look things up online and order them for delivery. Beats going on a Saturday morning quest for the right pan or sheets or, say, a vegetable chopper. Especially if the stores are miles and miles away. Makes a huge difference to caregivers like me, too. It’s why Sears and Roebuck did so well with their catalog. A shame they couldn’t make the transition to an economy much like the one they introduced back in the late 19th century.

Got doggy things to do now. Tomorrow.