Mostly here to provide Joannie with a hiatus of her own from her devoted care of our mother who is now staying at the nursing home — perhaps temporarily or perhaps to live out the rest of her life.  All that remains to be decided. 

Yesterday, while Mother was working with her dear physical therapists, Tammy and Thomas, I attended the Roman Catholic Spanish mass in the lobby. I was able to follow along and participate appropriately, having been properly churched all my life.  I know just enough Spanish to be able to understand the familiar Psalm and Gospel readings.  Many of the people attending were from the memory care ward and seemed to be unresponsive, but I absolutely believe they were fed and comforted.  Me too.  Gracias a Dios ya su hijo Jesucristo.

Like all of us, Mother wants to continue to live in her own home.  I have to say here that I think the American way of dying is an obscenity.  And, as Maranna, a dear friend and director of the nursing home said yesterday when I met with Mother’s staff of professional caregivers, “Betty may well outlive us all.”  Life is like that.

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West Texas can be amazingly beautiful.  The skies, sunrises and sunsets are spectacular. Some wonderful old buildings remain in the area.

This is the Methodist Church in Balmorhea where services are held every Sunday:

I believe this primitive stained-glass window depicts the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.  As I said, I was properly churched, right down to The Revelation of St. John the Divine.

Of course, I went to Balmorhea for Mexican food and not for spiritual food.  Need I say, I was more satisfied by the spiritual experience of being in that space where generations have worshipped and continue to do so?

Many wonderful old buildings remain in Pecos as well, standing as deserted monuments to a colorful past.

This is the old ice dock:

The depot:

We’d had a desert cloudburst, thus, the puddle in the foreground.

The old mercantile:

Sadly, as in communities everywhere, not all take pride in their front yards:

But I am lucky enough to stay here, where I am greeted by these three charming and affectionate companions when I return home at the end of the day:

Gracias a Dios.

Before I left 1880, Roxie and I took an early, short walk up to the reservoir and playground in my neighborhood.

When the city built this pre-school playground and splash pad, I thought it was a mistake since we had about two pre-schoolers in Fairmount Hill at that time.

If you build it, they will come!  Joyfully, we now have a good number of young families in the neighborhood.

What goes begging is this bocce court.

When I get home, I just might organize a league.

Before my darling neighbor Dan drove me to the shuttle, I took a picture of my red suitcase. “They” say you should do that.

Used a different shuttle company and it was the nicest ride I ever had.

Arrived promptly you-know-where:

About once a month, the tall grass at the dog park gets cut.  Usually just in the nick of time. They mow the big field and the trails.

Otherwise, it gets so tall you need help finding your ball.

Still, you can usually find a grassy place they missed for a little lie-down.

Minto-Brown Island Park is a city park.  I am happy to help pay for its maintenance with my property taxes.

I am happy to pay $1,486.59 for public education as well, though neither I or anyone I am related to ever attended.  I like to think I am contributing to raising up people who will be good citizens and be able to earn a living.

I pay $207.86 for mass transit.  Never taken a bus.

Actually, I am mostly content to pay all my local taxes.  From some of those federal ones, though, I wish I could opt out.  Specifically, I don’t like paying for foreign wars.  But I digress.

Today is Father’s Day.

At St.P.’s, our rector chooses not to mention the parental (Read: Hallmark) holidays in church.  She understands that many no longer have parents or never had loving ones or can’t be with loving ones or are too young to be in church and are in Sunday school making them greeting cards and crafty things.  These holidays are just just fraught with mixed feelings.  I appreciate that.  I think if we had sung “Faith of our Fathers” I would surely have shed a few tears.

Instead, today’s service began with the following:

Nearly everyone shed a few tears.  And no one has the answers to hatred and rage that turns into mass murders.

My daddy taught me to shoot a 22 rifle when I was a little girl.  He set up a Post Toasties box at a distance and told me to aim for the center of the “O’s.”  In that time and place, it was a natural thing to do.

And my daddy was shot with a gun once, by an enemy of war in the Philippines.  I saw the scar whenever he wore a short-sleeved shirt.  His life was “forever marked by the scourge of gun violence,” and not with just a physical scar.

I remember you today, Daddy.  I remember how brave and strong and wise I always thought you were when I was a little girl. When you were around, I was never afraid of anything. And I weep for a world where there is so much to be afraid of.

.  .  .  like women and their dogs and loving to be on the water.