Remember back in mid-October when temperatures dropped into the low 30s several nights in a row? Leaves had barely begun to change colors. Some folks hadn’t even put pumpkins on their porches yet. Many of us, including me, weren’t quite ready to say good-bye to summer.
I’d had a beautiful white begonia on my shady front porch for more than six months. I bought it in April and stuck it in a clay pot filled with good dirt, which I set on an old buggy seat that serves as a plant shelf. It got only a couple of hours of direct sun each day, which must be ideal because I’ve been doing this exactly the same way for almost a decade with excellent results. I couldn’t bear to see that dear begonia freeze, so every evening—right at dusk—I brought it inside and placed it on a raggedy dog-drying towel beside the front door. When temperatures rose the next day, I set the begonia back outside.
I couldn’t do this with any of my other summer flowers. My impatiens are planted in a huge cast iron cook pot that’s far too heavy to carry. My periwinkles grow in hanging wire baskets zip-tied to a chain link fence. And my other begonia, the one with bright pink flowers and deep green foliage, is planted next to my driveway in a concrete urn that’s even heavier than the cast iron cook pot.
For several chilly days, moving the white begonia inside and then back out became a ritual I enjoyed. I find that, especially in troubled times, I relish rituals.
Making ice, for instance, which I’ve been doing since my freezer’s automatic ice maker gave up the ghost a couple of years ago. New parts weren’t available and refurbished ones came with no warranty, so I opted instead for four stackable plastic ice trays, which I dump into the bin every evening and then refill. I pour sunflower seed into the birdfeeder every afternoon when I get back from walking the dog. And now that autumn really has arrived, I sweep leaves off my driveway at least once a day.
There’s peace in these rituals. They’re calming. They’re predictable. They bring order to this crazy world we live in, a world that’s anything but calm and predictable and orderly.
I don’t sleep much these days. Even when my body is exhausted, my mind won’t shut down. Sometimes I think about crazy stuff. How, exactly, does the moon affect the tides? If I went back to high school at my age, would algebra be harder or easier? Which states touch at least one Great Lake?
But mostly I worry. I worry about war and pestilence. About fires and floods. About tornadoes and tsunamis. Right now, my primary worry is what will happen in the November 5 election. I’ve already voted. Should I tell myself that’s enough, that the results are out of my hands, that nothing I can do or say will make any difference so I might as well stop thinking about it? Should I quit watching the news and late-night comedians? Should I stay off social media? Should I refuse to talk politics with anyone, be they friend or foe?
I can’t. I just can’t. So I will close this column by saying this: A convicted felon has no business being President of the United States. A person who has no respect for women has no business being President of the United State. A person who praises Adolf Hitler and who wants to be best buddies with Putin and Erdogan and Kim Jong Un has no business being President of the United States. A person who incited insurrection against this nation on January 6, 2021 has no business being President of the United States. Not now. Not ever.
Now I think I’ll go sweep the driveway. And dump some ice. And water my begonia, which I’m happy to say is still alive and well.
(November 2, 2024)