The Five‑Trick Pony Rides Down Memory Lane

Some stories don’t begin with inspiration; they begin with an itch. A tug. A little internal nudge that says, Hey, remember who you used to be? Today Jean follows that tug back to her art‑soaked past—marble dust, William Blake, big dreams, and the long undertow that pulled them out to sea. Along the way she picks up a few modern irritations, a MAGA fruit fly, and a reminder that kindness is sometimes a very slow weapon. It’s a walk down Memory Lane with a few sharp turns, a little humor, and the unmistakable voice of someone who’s lived enough life to tell it straight….AI

Some ponies are one‑trick ponies. Some are two‑trick ponies. If the topics I write about were a pony, I’d be a five‑trick pony. My subjects range from fellow residents in my independent living facility, my Mahjong obsession, my health‑care woes, politics, and—probably too often—I wander down Memory Lane.

Today I feel like wandering back to the days when I was obsessed with art, both making it and studying it. But like many people, dreams of greatness give way to life’s everyday struggles: making a living, building a life with a significant other, supporting parents as they need more and more help, and grieving when one of them dies. The heydays of my self‑indulgent art period drifted far out to sea, pulled down by an undertow so strong even Jacques Cousteau couldn’t have rescued it.

Etching print pulled from a metal plate

The print and poem above were created in the ’80s, shortly after my mom died suddenly, done in a printmaking class during my William Blake phase. For those who might not know Blake (1757–1827), Wikipedia describes him as “an English poet, painter, and printmaker…now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age.” He was obviously a prolific saver of his work, because you can’t study printmaking or poetry without tripping over him. At least you couldn’t during my era of being a sponge in the world of art history. I admired him. I wanted to be him…or Michelangelo…or John Singer Sargent.

Etching done by William Blake

During my Michelangelo period, I actually tried marble carving in a sculpture class and I got an A for my efforts. If I had a photo of that unfinished sculpture of a woman’s breasts, I’d post it—but I don’t. I was in my twenties and I quickly learned I wasn’t physically equipped to haul slabs of marble around. I hadn’t met Don yet, and maybe that was a good thing. He was fascinated by my untested talents and would have gladly aided and abetted me continuing to carve marble. For a farm boy with no formal art training, he had a good eye, and in our early years together we went to a lot of art shows and galleries. But life has a way of changing, and we had to grow up and do adulting like everyone else.

If I could dig deep into my past and pull up one dream I still wish had happened, I’d choose to be John Singer Sargent. (That's a painting of his at the top.) But I never had the raw talent for that, nor do I have time left to develop the craftsmanship it would take to achieve even a tenth of his greatness. So I content myself with the occasional art class our Life Enrichment Director puts on our schedule. Last week she offered a video‑taught class on painting the Northern Lights, and it was very Mickey Mouse. Not even Disney‑quality Mickey Mouse — more like the knockoff version you’d find on a bootleg T‑shirt at a flea market. But I sign up for every art class she offers, just to support having an arts‑and‑crafts element on campus. The first painting below was done in my prime; the last one—of the Northern Lights—was done last week in whatever you’d call the opposite of my prime. My sub‑prime? 

One of my dogs sat for a formal portrait

 

The Northern Lights

A fellow resident bugs the heck out of me to start teaching a painting class here, and whenever our LED has a class, she always sits next to me. “So I can copy what you’re doing,” she says. Every time she brings up the idea of me teaching, I’m not wishy‑washy in saying no way will that ever happen. I don’t have the desire or the time to plan lessons on long‑forgotten techniques. But she is relentless. She tells people I’m shy (news to me) and she says, “I'm blowing Jean's horn because she's too shy to blow it herself.” She’s as annoying as fruit flies on a bunch of bananas. And she’s a die‑hard MAGA and Trump supporter to boot. She knows I’m part of the Liberal Ladies group here, and when Trump was reelected she said, “You just wait, you’re going to be really happy with how he’s going to turn this country around.”

Those words burn in my thoughts every so often when I’m sitting near her at our Monday Night farmhouse dinner table, biting my tongue at something she says. One of these days I’m going to buy a shirt I’ve had my eye on that says: “Killing them with kindness is taking longer than I expected.” If I wore that, I’d love to see how long it takes her to realize I’m not as nice as she thinks I am—that I’m a phony. That I don’t want to be her friend. That I’m not shy; I just don’t like her enough to teach her what I learned in over thirty years of being art‑obsessed. That if she wants a pedestrian teacher, she can hire Bob Ross’s ghost.

 Sometimes I get tired of holding back my words in the name of keeping peace in the community. I imagine most of us do it, no matter which side of the whatever fence we’re on, because we value a peaceful, harmonious environment. I worry, though, that someday the filter in my brain—the one they say gives out in elderly people—will fail and I’ll start saying whatever I’m thinking. Please take me out behind the barn and shoot me if it does. I’ve gotten along 84 years without purposely offending anyone, and I don’t want to wreck that record now. 

Boy, did I take a detour on my walk down Memory Lane. But I guess there’s only so much a person can say to explain away the lost dreams and hopes of our youth—and without that detour, I wouldn’t have written enough to call it a blog post. Besides at my age, detours are half the fun. You start out talking about one thing and end up with a tale worthy of a confession booth. But somehow it’s all connected—our youthful dreams, the people we tolerate who we wish came with a mute button, our fears for the future, and trying to hold on to the version of ourselves we show the world. ©

 

Post-script because I can't seem to let go of this topic: Below is a custom, paint-by-number I did last winter of my great-great niece. I plan to do two more this coming winter. As a kid I started with paint-by-numbers and I thought going back to them might help me re-learn to control the paints. When I found out you could send the company a photo to turn into a custom, paint-by-number I was sold. 

A Spark of Hope in a Very Red County

In this week’s post, Jean steps away from her usual lighter fare and returns to a subject she’s followed for most of her life: American politics. With her trademark blend of candor, humor, and a touch of righteous irritation, she reflects on the current political climate, the work her Tuesday Night Conversation Table is doing, and the sparks of hope she sees flickering. It’s not a fluffy post — and she’s not pretending otherwise — but it’s honest, it’s hers, and it’s written in the spirit of wanting her country to be better than it is right now....AI

It was Memorial Day the last time I did a political post, and I hesitate to do another one. But I’m going to do it anyway. If you’re a fan of MAGA or the current administration, please think of your blood pressure and click on by. If you decide to read it anyway, be forewarned: life isn’t fair, and I may not moderate your comments to go live. I’ve never before purged comments from someone whose views differ from mine, but I’m feeling mean today — and there's a first time for everything.

I’ve followed and loved politics — until Trump came along — since the Kennedy administration. It’s part of who I am, and I try hard not to hold back in presenting all sides of myself here. One day I hope to be proud of my country again, and I do see a spark of that coming back. The members of our Tuesday Night Conversation Table (formerly known as the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies) have been doing our part to turn the House and Senate blue. Not me specifically — I’m too busy with my health issues right now and needing to stay off my feet — but I lend moral support and encouragement to the ladies in our group of fifteen, many of whom have been volunteering at our local Democratic campaign office and attending rallies. They give reports at our weekly dinners afterward, and even though at times it feels like we’re all using flint stones and friction to start that patriotic fire back up again, the spark of hope that our democracy might actually hold up against our disastrous and corrupt presidency is clearly there.

One of the rallies our group attended was for Michigan’s Democratic candidate for the Senate, Abdul El‑Sayed. He’s gotten national attention because he’s a practicing Muslim. Born in this country, a doctor, and from everything I’ve seen and heard, he can think on his feet and speaks of values and hope. The more I see him, the more he reminds me of Obama. The rally in my area drew 1,400 attendees, which is impressive considering I live in a red county. It was part of his tour labeled It Shouldn’t Be This Hard. Among other things, he said: “I’m running for U.S. Senate ’cause it just shouldn’t be this hard. Shouldn’t be this hard to afford our groceries, shouldn’t be this hard to afford a tank of gas…” He went on to talk about how our tax dollars are being spent to drop bombs on other people’s kids instead of spending money on our kids.

He’s been against the war from the get‑go, which has earned him some well‑financed opposition spreading misinformation about him. I live among people who are buying into the propaganda that all Muslims are terrorists — except for Dr. Oz, of course, another practicing Muslim who is frequently seen on stage with Trump and Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the latter being that joke Trump installed in charge of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

In case anyone is living under a rock: as of September 24th, the CDC reported 3,659 confirmed cases of the measles so far this year, compared to 2,289 in all of 2025 — and get this — 16 cases in 2024. Yet the administration is still standing behind its designated anti‑vaccine and anti‑science jack‑off. Oops. I probably shouldn’t be using words like “jack‑off” in polite company, but like I said up above, I’m feeling mean today, and that guy is a ball of loony tunes masquerading as a human being.

And while I’m on the topic of loony tunes, let’s talk about Pete Segseth, the Secretary of Defense — I refuse to call him the Secretary of War. On the topic of his newly formed Religious Affairs Office, law experts at HuffPost say, “…as a matter of bureaucracy, he can probably do this. That’s not the problem. The problem is the First Amendment.” Stay tuned to the news; this should get interesting. But the bigger headline in The Hill that overshadowed this issue is Segseth’s new “Autonomous Warfare Command,” to be led by Elon Musk, Palmer Luckey, and Newt Gingrich. Pete is also cutting the generals and admirals by 20% to “get rid of the bureaucrats in the armed services.” Gee, what could go wrong with that plan! If there was ever a place where I want bureaucrats to slow down decisions to attack other countries, it’s here. We don’t need faster deployment of force, the aim of the new AWC. We need the kind of intelligence in the president’s situation room like we see on the TV series, The West Wing. Instead, we heard in Segseth’s latest speech at Quantico, where he said, “we no longer want people in the military who are ideological clowns. The patriotic cowboys are in, with testosterone testing on top. Diversity is not our strength. Unity is our strength.” I think he’s hoping for a military full of no‑holds‑barred ICE‑like agents, all pumped up on testosterone injections and with overdeveloped muscles everywhere but between their ears.

Well, I feel better having gotten that off my chest. But I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that the courts are holding up against many/most of the abuses of power the current administration is attempting. But we liberals can’t back off now. We need to do all we can to support the groups suing Trump and those working to turn the House and Senate blue. If the latter doesn’t happen, I fear this country will not survive the pillaging going on in our national parks and on federal land, the national debt growing by portions never seen before, and the once‑friendly nations turning against us en masse, not to mention the grifting the Trump family is doing to enrich themselves. 

<Rant off.> ©

Cold Bathrooms, Warm Hoodies and Miracle Power of Honey

Some Fridays arrive with a clear topic in hand; others show up with a blank screen, a stubborn pocket door, and a foot wrapped like a mummy. Jean’s week delivered all three — plus a few medical mysteries, a sweatshirt that now fits like she borrowed it from a linebacker, and a maintenance man who unintentionally rescued her from writer’s block. Settle in for her latest dispatch from the continuum of independence, cold bathrooms, and the winding road of wound care...AI

How many times am I going to start a blog post by saying I’m staring at a blank computer screen without the foggiest notion of what to write about? This time, however, there’s a maintenance man on the other side of my apartment trying to fix the pocket door between my en‑suite bathroom and the bedroom. It only slides halfway and then gets stuck. And you’re probably wondering why it matters, since I live alone and privacy shouldn’t be a problem.

For one thing, I’m a creature of habit, and I’m afraid I’ll forget not to close it, get trapped in the bathroom, and die of starvation before anyone finds me — which isn’t entirely true. If I didn’t show up on Mahjong day to set up the tables, mats, and sets, someone would come looking for me. I may be wrong, but I think it takes longer than six days to die of starvation, assuming I got trapped on a Wednesday night. Although knowing my luck, I’d be the first documented case of someone starving to death in a bathroom with a fully stocked pantry twenty-five feet away.

But the main reason I need the door to shut is to keep heat in the bathroom when I’m taking a shower. This stupid apartment has no heat source in the bathroom except for a small heater on a timer that’s part of the ceiling exhaust fan. I’d add my own space heater, but there isn’t an electrical outlet anywhere except on the countertop — where the cord would no doubt end up in water and I’d die by electrical shock. My entire apartment is too cold for me. The heat ducts are close to the ceiling, so I can’t even stand in front of one to get warm the way I did in other houses where I’ve lived.

My favorite winter attire is a hoodie that says, “Yes, I’m cold! Me 24:7” sprawled across the chest. I put it on the other day and almost cried. I spent a fortune on that bulky sweatshirt, and after losing 40 pounds it totally engulfs me. It was already a size too big last winter but now my hands are completely covered, the body of the shirt is halfway down my thighs, and I have enough room inside to conceal an eight‑month pregnancy. It’s one of those situations where I’m both happy and sad at the same time — happy for the weight loss but sad that my favorite garment now makes me look like a toddler who wandered off wearing her father’s college sweatshirt.

I still have more weight to lose, so I’m trying not to buy anything new. Like most people whose weight has been up and down their entire lives, I had a stash of clothing stored away in a box labeled “Too Small.” They are just right now. So I’ll be okay until around Christmas, when I hope to be in new territory with a number on the scale I haven’t seen since I was forty. I thank the gods of science who developed Zepbound for that possibility, and I curse the gods of misfortune who gave me a foot wound that’s preventing me from walking my butt off — literally.

And finally, I found my topic to blog about: updates on my foot.

I’ve been to the wound center three times now, and I can actually see progress. And guess what they’re having me dress the wound with. If you said scoparium honey, you’d get the kewpie doll. AI says scoparium honey “is a unique monofloral honey produced by bees that pollinate the Leptospermum scoparium bush… produced mainly in New Zealand and parts of Australia where the native tea tree grows.” For wounds it’s “applied topically in medical‑grade gels to promote tissue repair and fight bacteria.”

But it’s a little more complicated than just dabbing it on. First I have to apply a cream that lessens the pain of cleaning the wounds (there are five) and let it set for ten minutes. Then comes cleaning the wounds with a cleanser that has “acid” in the title before it’s ready for the honey, followed by covering the wounds with a gooey, sticky infused gauze. On top of that goes a silicone foam dressing and enough tape to mummify my foot. At this point my foot has more layers than a wedding cake. But I still have to add a compression tube folded double over my toes and its liner. The foot doctor I was seeing before I started going to the wound center wasn’t even having me cover the area with anything but a cream.

As part of the hunt to figure out what caused — or is contributing to — the wounds I’ve had since May, the wound center sent me to a vein doctor because they suspected a “leaky varicose vein.” But the vein doctor said I have good blood flow going down to my feet and back up to my heart, and nothing that requires surgery. She recommended that I see a vascular doctor to rule out an issue in that department, even though she said that since I can walk 7,000 steps without pain, she didn’t think a vascular doctor would find anything. And since she seemed interested in spending Blue Cross and Medicare’s money, she also said I should see a dermatologist and an autoimmune doctor.

When I told the wound center doctor that, he made a sarcastic remark under his breath about her wanting to run me all over the place — which pretty much echoed what I thought. I didn’t tell him that she also thought he was wrong to tell me to cut back on my walking because, she said, “the ankle is like a second heart, pumping blood to our feet.” Don’t you hate it when doctors disagree? It’s like having divorced parents, except instead of arguing over custody, they’re arguing over my foot. Even though cutting back my walking has slowed down my weight loss, I’m sticking with his advice since I’m finally seeing improvement — which I never saw during the three months of going to a foot doctor twice a month. When I finally saw what Ms. Foot Doctor was billing my insurance company, I was flabbergasted. $326 each visit on top of what Medicare was paying her! Thankfully, I got smart enough to ask for a referral and I'm now getting a treatment that seems to be working. Whatever is causing the open sores, they went from one open wound to five under her care.

Circling back to where I began — because I read once that writers need to do that — the maintenance man is gone, my pocket door works great again, and I no longer have a blank computer screen. Now I need to save what I just wrote so I can do some proofing and editing later today. ©

Photo: When I was searching Etsy for a photo of my beloved sweatshirt to use up above, I noticed they were having a sale so I broke down and ordered another one — two sizes smaller and out of the plus size category! They have a no returns policy so if it's too small, then it will live in my closet as incentive to stay on the weight loss course.