Thursday, July 9, 2026
1956 Dick Clark's first appearance as host of American Bandstand
1978, the American Nazi Party held a rally at Marquette Park, Chicago
1980 Seven people died in a stampede to see Pope John Paul II in Brazil
1987 Colonel Oliver North, USMC, admitted to shredding Iran-Contra evidence
2021 June 2021 was declared the hottest June ever recorded in the US in 127 years, with an average temperature of 72.6 degrees F (4.2 degrees above average
6:30 a.m. Bambi, a regular visitor recently in our backyard. We never see his mother, only him. He's resting, chewing his cud, and vulnerable, waiting for his mother, I suspect.
In bed at 10, up at 5:40; 0555 202.0 133/78/60 126; 67/79/66 cloudy
Morning meds at a.m., and Eliquis at 6:40 a.m. and p.m.
Three years ago today, I wondered: Cur scribo? I often wonder. Is this just some form of narcissism? Is it just to have something to do while idling on my recliner? Am I just using this exercise as a daily check on cognitive decline, a clue for creeping dementia? Is it because I have so few interactions with other human beings, and so few friends that I have regular contact with? Just a silent way of blowing off steam over the sorry state of the world and the U.S.'s deep polarization? Am I trying to leave a record of having been alive the last days of my life, expecting that I could kick the bucket anytime now? Is it, as I have long thought, just a very inadequate substitute for my daily morning chats with my beloved sister with whom I shared a relationship like no other? Or is it what I suggested in an earlier journal entry, just the need to write, as in 'fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, a writer gotta write'? There was a fairly long period after my grandmother died in 1995 when I reestablished (or first established) communication with my father and I sent him a handwritten letter every day. Trying to make up for lost time? Or just trying to give him something to look forward to, because I knew he enjoyed receiving those letters? And I enjoyed writing them, just as I enjoyed sending long, thoughtful text messages to Kitty all those mornings, for 5 or 6 years. I kept sending her those morning messages well after she was no longer able to write back when she was in her last days, and even for a week or more after she died. I didn't want to stop even though I knew she was not with me anymore. A form of denial perhaps, but I knew she was gone and had been pre-grieving her loss long before she finally died. Fish gotta swim.
Mousicide. We have had two mouse sightings in our house this summer, both by me, one in the basement workroom and one in my bedroom. Geri called our professional rodent-fighter to the house, and he did whatever it is he does, checking for access points, etc.. Still, Geri opened the door to the basement yesterday and uttered a little shriek when she saw the mouse brazenly perched on a basement stair, looking at her. When I heard that outcry, I knew I couldn't avoid it: I had to set mousetraps to kill the little guy. Except for insects and rats, I hate killing animals, including house and field mice and chipmunks. I know it's necessary for health and property protection reasons, or to protect the plants in Geri's garden that she works so diligently to nurture; I just hate to do it.
To a Mouse
By Robert Burns
On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss ’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
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