Making Set Lists

In a world gone mad – well, not all the world, but a few people with power disproportionate to their ability to handle power – it is consoling to find something that has remained the same.

What I have in mind is the making of set lists.

Throughout childhood I sang songs accompanied by my mother playing the piano. One song was the limit at the PTA Music Festival, and the 4-H and County Fair Talent Contests.

When I got to college, I began singing and playing with other musicians and doing gigs for which I had to make set lists.

Making a set list is both an art and a craft. You must have in mind your audience, your tempo, key changes, moods, and tunings, if you play the guitar. All these things go into making a set.

You want to start with a song that grabs people’s attention, then you want to pace the songs deliberately while traversing the middle of the set, and then you want to end on a high note, always keeping in mind that you must read every audience and be prepared to shift one direction or another if necessary, so keep that master list nearby.

In my twenties while performing solo I put together a collection of original songs, love songs, story songs, country songs, folk songs, funny songs, and of course my baby done left me/men are no damn good songs.

In 1974 I met Malvina Reynolds, a truly great songwriter and a truly great human being. She was a socialist – a real one. I knew her long enough and well enough that when people shriek “Socialist!” about somebody these days, I think, you wouldn’t know a real socialist if one bit you in the butt.

Anyway.

I added some of Malvina’s songs to my repertoire, and my sets perked right up.

So this was great. I was traveling to gigs in Oregon, California, and British Columbia as well as Washington, and I worked hard on my sets.

I sang on the island frequently. In those years I often played at Sound Food on a Saturday night.

I suppose I must explain for some of you newbies (if any newbies read the Loop) that Sound Food was a restaurant on the corner of the Main Highway and SW 206th Street. It opened in 1974 with high hopes and a hippie ambiance. Some of the waitresses wore halter dresses that didn’t even cover their aspirations to do something besides waitressing, and older customers clutched their pearls when young moms nursed their babies right there at the table. Ah, the good old days.

Sound Food went through many iterations, and, sadly, closed permanently a few years ago, but in the seventies, the joint was jumping.

The restaurant was noisy, and cheerful, and usually there were toddlers who got up to dance and run around.

 The live music was background noise.

After making careful set lists for the first year or two when I went to play at Sound Food, one day I thought, nuts. I began singing the songs from my master list alphabetically.

No one ever noticed.

I kept singing and making set lists for most of my adult life, as a solo act and in groups, in between being a mom and having dead end jobs to support my music and child-feeding and clothing habits.

The kids grew up and left, and a few years later my husband Rick became ill. I spent five years being his caregiver before he died. No music in those years.

Now I sing with Listen in the Kitchen, five women (including me) who are brilliant and talented musicians, not to mention women with the wild sense of humor you want in the friends who accompany you in this life. We sing marvelous harmonies. We play toe tappin’ tunes. We have fun.

We work hard on our set lists.

Sometimes these days I sing solo. More set lists.

You know, when I lost Rick, it felt like my world had burned to the ground and I had lost everything. There were times I thought I was going to die or wondered why I didn’t, with life so empty. Times when I wondered why I was still here.

Unfortunately for that attitude, after a few years I decided that I might not know why I was still here, but I might as well do the two things which I seem to do well, singing and writing, and see how that goes.

So far, so good.

I’ll be singing at the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, May 18, from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. That’s a busy place, with lots of people walking around. Noisy, crowded.

Maybe I’ll sing my songs alphabetically.

Just kidding. I will make set lists.

Kissadee, Chickadee

The cat and I were enjoying some sweet repose on the kitchen porch this morning, when we both heard a thump at the far end of the house.

The cat was off like a shot, straight to the back porch. He stood on his hind legs, peered through the glass door and pawed at it furiously.

His behavior convinced me that the thump had been caused by some living creature, so I walked over to the door myself, hoping it wasn’t a rat.

When I looked through the door I saw a squirrel frantically bouncing around the room, jumping from window to wall to shelf to cabinet, up and down and around again, defying gravity, trying to find a way out.

The cat was ready to implode in his eagerness to get into that room.

In the sure certainty that the cat would never be able to get close to that squirrel, much less lay one claw on it, I opened the door and let the cat inside.

The squirrel was not as certain of its safety as I was. When it saw the cat, it went straight up to the top of the wall, found the gap between the top of the wall and the roof (probably how it got in), and slithered out into the ivy, and down, and away.

I walked back out the door and looked the direction the squirrel had gone, into the blackberries under the maple tree. I could hear it grousing in squirrel.

Meanwhile the cat was looking around, wondering where that big splendid squirrel had gone.

My cat suffers so many disappointments.

The backyard narrative has picked up in both plot and characters as spring has come on. Oh, there are always squirrels, but the birds I haven’t seen for a while are beginning to show up.

Yesterday a downy woodpecker lit on the suet cake, and he was back this morning. “He” because he had the distinctive red patch on his head. His mate came by yesterday afternoon. “His mate” because she had no red patch.

The house sparrow pair that has been hanging around all through March and early April is still here. One day a couple of weeks ago I looked up from my computer and saw the two of them perched outside my office window side by side, peering in at me. It was a little unsettling. It never occurred to me that birds might watch humans.

The juncos, chestnut-backed chickadees, and Steller’s jays are always with us. Haven’t heard any red breasted sapsuckers banging on street signs, trying to attract a mate. I don’t know why that would attract a mate, but there’s no accounting for taste.

Last week a red shafted Northern Flicker lit on the suet cake and I was so awed by its beauty that I spontaneously broke into song: “You are so beautiful …” I was inside the house so that didn’t scare it away. He stayed for several minutes, turning this way and that so I could see him from every side and angle and I had no trouble identifying him in the bird book. What a looker.

Of course the bosses of the neighborhood are the crows. When a crow arrives, everyone else leaves. Then the crow goes ahead and eats as much of everything as it wishes, for as long as it wishes.

Watching the birds and squirrels is a great pleasure. Bird behavior makes sense. They have basic aims – to eat, to find a safe place to nest or perch – and they endeavor to achieve those aims in a straightforward manner.

No bird has ever lied to me. Neither has a squirrel. Nor has either one hit me, verbally abused me, betrayed me, or cheated me.

Humans, on the other hand, have done all those things.

It is a scary world. We seem to be on track to make our own species extinct, one way or another, faster (war) or more slowly (climate change, or bad water, etc.). In the meantime, “man’s inhumanity to man” is flourishing.

Flourishing.

Some days it seems there is little hope for our kind, brilliant, altruistic, boneheaded, heartless, species.

Watching the birds the world comes down to my back yard, to the birds’ pure beauty as they pick seed out of the feeders or off the ground or sit on a branch of the apple tree, serenading the neighborhood.

So it is a good thing, a restorative thing, a salvific thing, to watch and listen to the birds - and the squirrels. They remind me of the sweetness of life.

They encourage me, and I get up, and I go on.

The cat, meanwhile, sits inside the kitchen door, staring out at the birds. As I said, he suffers many disappointments.

The Earth Will Be Fine – Save Our Species

In 1965, as a college freshman, one of the general education courses I was required to take was Biology.

The man who taught the course was obviously angry that he had to teach this bonehead science class, and clearly of the opinion that everyone should be majoring in the sciences.

His name I do not remember. What I do remember is that he was the first person I ever heard use the word “ecology.”

He spoke of how human beings were, through carelessness, ignorance, arrogance, and greed, ruining the ecology of planet Earth. He spoke of a coming environmental apocalypse and painted a dire picture of species extinctions, famine, rising sea levels, and crazy weather.

It was a doomsday scenario and it scared me, I can tell you. I was seventeen, though, and that doomsday seemed so far off – if it was even real - that it was easy to forget.

In the 1970s ecology popped up again. We began to have Save the Earth rallies. There was talk of recycling, and how what we did affected the environment.

By 1973 I was living here on the island and waiting in line for gasoline. We were being told to drive more slowly to conserve gas. A national speed limit of 55 miles per hour was made into law. Oil was a finite resource and we were running out.

We have short attention spans. The 55 miles per hour speed limit is long gone. Oil is still a finite resource, and it is now being acquired in ways that no one would have considered years ago – e.g., fracking – because it was so easy to drill a well and strike oil.

Now many of us would like to see our country turn to energy sources other than oil: solar panels, wind turbines, hemp oil, and tidal energy are all possible energy sources. But there is still too much money to be made in oil. Those who profit by it will not release their death grip on those profits, regardless of what that means for their children and grandchildren.

For years we heard about “global warming,” and then at some point the term “climate change” began to be used instead. Many people did, and still do, call climate change a hoax, and treat the idea with contumely.

Even if you think it’s a hoax, you can’t deny that we were choking on forest fire smoke last summer, and people were burned out of house and home in California and other Western States. People died in those fires; people died from bad air.

What we are now calling “Fire Season” (remember when we didn’t have a Fire Season?) has already started this year.

Could fire happen on Vashon? It has in the past. It is still moist enough here that we are in slightly less danger of wildfire than dry locales but clear the brush from around your house if you are worried. Seriously.

Then there are those pesky hurricanes (cyclones, typhoons) that are devastating the Caribbean islands and the southern and eastern states of our country, as well as countries in other parts of the world, destroying homes and people and infrastructure, and new storms striking before people have recovered from the last one.

 This winter there was something called a “cyclone bomb” of snow in the Midwest, which along with the heavy rains that followed contributed to flooding of a magnitude people say they’ve never seen before.

If it is your opinion that climate change is a hoax, fine. Believe whatever you wish.

You, and climate change believers, and people who have no opinion on the subject, will still need to roll up your sleeves and deal with the results of the fires, floods, droughts, snows, hurricanes, tornados, rainfall, drought, polluted air, rising sea levels, and accompanying diseases, famines, wars, homelessness, and refugees, and whatever else is thrown at us, because reality does not care what your opinion is.

Reality is impartial and fair that way.

Right now it seems that almost everyone except the people presently running this country understand that we are in deep kimchi and we need to live responsibly if our species is to survive.

I believe that part of being responsible is to vote for people who have more sense than God gave a goose. If anyone like that runs for anything. If not, maybe we should turn our government over to the geese.

My college biology teacher knew what he was talking about, the old curmudgeon, so he really did contribute to my general education, even if I cannot remember zip about biology.

Mind you, we have not even mentioned what happens in Pugetopolis when the Cascadia Fault shifts, or Mt. Rainier erupts.

Let’s face it: life on earth is not for sissies.

Hospital District: “The same care my Golder Retriever gets.”

Hospital District:

“The same care my Golder Retriever gets.”

Medical care on Vashon-Maury Islands is not what it used to be.

We used to have a few doctors here, plus the clinic up on the hill at Paradise Ridge. If your kid, or you, fell and broke a bone, you could have it x-rayed and put in a cast here on the island.

No more.

I recently sat down with Annie Miksch, who is one of the members of the Vashon-Maury Health Collaborative. This is a group of people that has been working for five years trying to answer the question, “How do we get and keep a stable health care presence on Vashon/Maury Islands?”

They have been having public meetings about health care on the island, at one of which a gentleman got up and said that he’d like to get “The same care my Golder Retriever gets.”

The point being, animals on this island have easier access to health care than people do at present.

In the past, Miksch said, “All we had to offer was, ‘come out here and lose money,’” when the island tried to lure providers to the island. “The providers wanted $1 million up front, plus $500,000 against their losses their first year. We could not offer that.”

“If a Hospital District passes, we’ll have money that can talk,” Miksch told me. “With a Hospital District the island could raise enough money to subsidize on-island health care. Whatever comes, it has to serve all of us, from the homeless on the island to the wealthiest.”

So what is a Hospital District? It does not mean we’ll have a hospital.

It is a taxing district, same as a Fire Department taxing district, or Parks taxing district, or School taxing district.

It is run by a board of commissioners elected by us. The commissioners are people who represent us, and have business, medical, and community knowledge. They would have public meetings, and answer to the public.

The commissioners would set the tax rates, and yes, our property taxes would go up. Can we afford that?

Can we afford having no urgent medical care for human beings on the island?

Why do we need a Hospital District? Glib answer: so we can have care as good as our animals have.

If you’ve been paying attention, you know that the clinic on the hill has been a revolving door as various providers have passed through.

Primary care clinics and urgent care clinics do not make enough money to pay their own way. They need a population of 25,000 to 35,000 to draw on, and Vashon/Maury has fewer than 11,000 people on a good day. Beyond that, clinics make money from their affiliations with specialists, surgeons, and hospitals, Miksch told me.

“We’re too small, we’re too rich*, and we’re too close to major health care,” Miksch said.

Swedish Hospital, for example, is only twelve miles away. That’s only a short drive, right?

The original clinic lost money, and Granny’s Attic was established to make up for the shortfall. It wasn’t enough. Highline came in.

Highline lost money, and Franciscan took over Highline.

Franciscan failed to calculate that most islanders went to hospitals and specialists in Seattle, not Tacoma, where most of their hospital and specialist connections were, so they lost money. Bye, bye, Franciscan.

For a time, the clinic was closed, and no provider would come to the island. If you needed a doctor, you had to go to the mainland, or call 911.

Neighborcare was willing to come to the island when no one else would. Yay, Neighborcare!

However, Neighborcare has limitations.

They cannot do urgent care. We can go to a hospital ER, or, those of us who go to Seattle know there is now a Franciscan urgent care clinic on Fauntleroy in West Seattle. These options require a trip off the island. Not everyone is able to drive themselves off the island or afford the ferry fare to get back. Not everyone is able to drive.

The Neighborcare clinic tends to be overwhelmed and understaffed. It can take a long time – weeks – to schedule an appointment at the clinic. You might be able to get a walk-in appointment, or you might be told they’re not doing walk-ins that day.

Neighborcare has established a school medical clinic here funded through Best Starts for Kids, and that clinic is a success, but at the main clinic they are losing money and they can’t keep that up forever.

When Miksch says, “losing money,” she is talking about $350,000 to $400,000 a year.

One of the major contributing factors to this loss is that both private medical insurers and Medicare do not reimburse medical costs with as large a percentage of the fee as they did in years past. Ironically, if most patients were on Medicaid, Neighborcare would receive higher reimbursements for their charges, but many islanders have private insurance. (*That’s the “We’re too rich,” part)

A Hospital District levy is not on the ballot yet. To get it on the ballot this November, many people will have to sign petitions asking to put it on the ballot. You will soon see petitions around the island – it is up to you to decide if you are going to sign a petition.

Once it is on the ballot, assuming enough signatures are obtained, at least 40% of the people who voted in the last election must vote on the issue to validate the election, and of those, 50% +1 must vote to pass it.

For some reason the island had a big turnout for the 2018 election, so if you are in favor of a Hospital District, you need to get out and vote for it.

The ballot would ask: Shall we have a public Hospital District? And: Who shall be the commissioners? Meaning, the commissioners would be elected at the same time the Hospital District is formed.

A Hospital District would mean that a health care provider at the clinic would to some extent answer to us, instead of the other way around, because we would be able to keep them afloat financially.

Meanwhile, we can drive to Seattle or Tacoma or call 911 if we must.

Vashon is not alone in the dwindling of medical care in rural communities. Forming a Hospital District will give us some traction to get stable medical care here.

When a Hospital District was put to the vote twelve years ago, it sank like a stone, because it did not benefit enough people. People did not want to have their property taxes raised for something that would not benefit them.

That has changed. Now a Hospital District has the potential to benefit most, if not all, of us on the island.

Keep Your Eye on Easter

Lent was never mentioned in the Baptist Sunday school I attended as a child, so when I came to the Episcopal Church as an adult, I had to learn about Lent.

I grew up in a town with a large Roman Catholic population, and I had this idea that Lent was about giving something up. It seemed like chocolate was a popular choice for my Catholic friends.

You can give up whatever you think is appropriate in Lent. It is a season of prayer and fasting. I’ve heard it said that it doesn’t count if it’s too easy. For example, if I said I was giving up pickles, that would not count. I hate pickles. So not much self-denial there, is there?

You need to give up something you’ll miss.

Chocolate, cigarettes, video games, Facebook – the possibilities for self-denial are endless. If you’re going on a weight loss diet for six weeks and calling it your Lenten fast, some would say that’s not exactly the spirit of Lent, but I would not judge. Discipline is discipline.

The other part of Lent is self-examination.

How hard is it to look at yourself honestly? How hard is it to see yourself clearly, without doing a bash job on yourself, or repeating all the lies you were told about yourself, or denying your gifts and strong points? Or thinking you are such a good person that nothing about you needs any work?

Answer: Hard. Really, really hard.

In my youth, I was one of those, “I’m a good person. It’s everyone else who’s screwed up,” types.

This is a terrible way to go through life.

I look back at that young woman now and think, oh, the force was weak with that one. My life was based on being a goody-two shoes victim. I had been wronged, therefore I could do no wrong.

I had to learn that I wasn’t as bad as I had been told, nor as great as I liked to fantasize, that I was not the only person who’d had some hard knocks, and that everything wasn’t all about me.

What a relief.

 I will not tell you how many years and sorrows it took me to arrive at the knowledge distilled in that one paragraph. You might get discouraged.

Suffice it to say I did not achieve enlightenment in the six weeks of the first Lent I observed in the Episcopal Church.

To be honest, I found 12-step programs much more efficient than the church in introducing me to myself. They say, “Here are the tools.” It’s up to you to do the work, and they’ll support you all the way, but the only heavens and hells involved are the ones you make of your own life.

But I digress, as usual.

So, here we are in the season of Lent. When it comes to self-examination at my age I look at myself and say this is probably as good as it gets. It’s not that I think I’m done and don’t need improvement, I always need to keep walking that way, but I’m old and I’m tired, and I’m not shooting for perfection here.

I try to behave, I do. Kindness is my rule, and it’s a good rule, because by nature I am easily annoyed and can go from zero to unhinged in under a second. Because of that reactivity, I try to maintain a calm demeanor, even when I or anyone else would be saying, “Are you bleeping kidding me?” I try to keep that sort of language where it belongs, in the home.

It never hurts to check in with yourself and some trusted friends or guides and see how you’re doing. One of the attractions of church for me is having people around me who can help me keep on track. I love solitude, but I need reference points and perspectives that I don’t have here on Planet Mary.

A dear friend has announced that she is giving up malice for Lent. Malice, resentment, and grudges. That sounded great to me, and an example of true self-denial. What is more enjoyable than going over the sins others have committed against us, and feeling that self-righteous affirmation of our own innocence and goodness? Giving that up – man, that takes some grit.

Lent is the season when last summer’s stores have run low. Keep your eye on Easter. Life shall rise again. It always does. Bulbs are already blooming.

A blessed Spring to everyone. Except my friends in Australia, where it’s Autumn.

Congratulations to Clare, Xavier, and Cora on the arrival of Rowan Samuel Blakemore Mayes. It’s a big name, but I think he can handle it.

Snowmageddon in Retrospect

A STANDING OVATION to the men and women who were out in the snow and ice repairing power lines, cutting up and moving trees and branches, clearing roads, finding and fixing broken water lines, and running generators. Everyone who was out in the worst of conditions taking care of the rest of us, THANK YOU, for risking your lives and your sanity by doing your jobs.

THANK YOU to the Food Bank for delivering bags of food because people couldn’t get to the Food Bank.

THANK YOU to the people who made sure other people got to medical appointments.

THANK YOU to the people who checked up on the elderly, the disabled, and the snowbound, and asked what was needed.

However you stood by your island neighbor, THANK YOU, and I apologize to anyone I have not mentioned specifically.

Now.

There’s been talk about whether this was the biggest snowstorm ever.

It was not a snowstorm; it was three snowstorms. The first one was a sweet little storm, and then everything froze for a few days. Then at exactly noon on Friday the 8th the first few flakes of the second snowstorm began to trickle down.

I was going into the pharmacy to pick up a prescription at the time. I saw those flakes and thought, “Uh-oh.”

From there I went to the store for last minute supplies and drove home a little before one, by which time there was maybe a half-inch of snow on the ground. Once I was home, I hunkered down for the duration.

The power went out at midnight on Friday, which was not unexpected. On Saturday morning, nine inches of snow stood around my house, and we were all snowed in together.

The electricity came back on here just before five on Saturday afternoon, and to my amazement, so did the cable and internet. Now I had snowbound bliss.

On Monday the third snowstorm began in the late morning, and by the time that snow was done we had achieved the one-foot status here at Casa Tuel.

The first day of enforced confinement I had a touch of cabin fever. The second day, not so much. I put on my Wellingtons (rubber boots), grabbed the ski poles, and took a walk up to the mailbox. No mail, of course, but it was a good walk.

The third day I decided that leaving the house is highly overrated.

It only got better as the week went on. No need to set alarms to wake myself in the morning, no obligations, no guilt.

People in the Midwest and Northeast who always have snow and ice in the winter mocked us to scorn – wimpy Washington people, freaking out over a little snow.

Tuesday evening I happened to tune into the CBS News, not something I usually do. Their lead story was how winter weather was making it difficult for people in the Midwest and Northeast. Snow! Ice! Cold! Cars going out of control! The horror!

I looked at the TV and said out loud, “Aw, are you having a little trouble with SNOW?”

It was mean-spirited of me and I will pray for forgiveness. Soon.

Did I get bored? Did I miss being with people?

I was texting, emailing, or on the phone a lot of the time, so definitely not lonely.

As for boredom, I had books, magazines, and those good old rabbit holes, TV and the internet. I wrote. I slept.

Wow, did I sleep. I stayed up late reading, and I slept until I woke up, also late, but I had that unfamiliar feeling of having enough sleep. I felt rested, which has not happened often in my adult life, know what I mean?

For those of you who had to get out and deal with the snow for whatever reason, my deepest condolences.

There were times in my earlier years when I had to go out in snow and ice, going to, coming from, or doing my work. Usually I came out of it unscathed, but once, on the way to work, I hit black ice, flipped, rolled, and ended up with a broken back.

My husband had to go out in bad weather because he was a water system maintenance guy. He was dedicated to keeping the water flowing.

We are most fortunate and blessed that the people who keep us going during the hard times are dedicated to their work. It is no pleasure to go out into the roaring elements and stay there night and day until the storm is over and the job is done.

Thank a utility worker this week, or anyone who went above and beyond during the recent unpleasantness. We owe them.

Coffee and Prayer

My friend Sonya came to visit for a few days the other week.

Her daughter and son-in-law gave her a Kindle for Christmas, and while she was here she got onto my computer and logged into one of her library accounts to download a book.

When she was done, she got up and walked away from my computer, leaving her library card on the computer desk. Some time later I came in and saw it there and thought, oh, I’ll give that to Sonya.

So I picked it up and took it into her bedroom and left it on the table next to her bed.

Or so I thought.

The next day Sonya asked me if I had seen her library card. Of course I had – and went to the table next to the bed, where the card was conspicuously absent.

There followed a search – on the bed table, on the computer desk, on the kitchen table, in the living room, on the floors of all the rooms through which I had walked. Everywhere I could think it might be. Nada.

Finally I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’m going to leave it to coffee and prayer.”

I made my morning cup of coffee, carried my mug to the kitchen table and sat down. I took a calming breath and prayed, God, help me find that library card, then said, “Come, holy spirit,” and sat there quietly.

In a couple of minutes it came to me: the washing machine.

Got up and went there, and sure enough, there was Sonya’s library card. It was on the dryer, actually.

I had stopped to move a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, and set the card down, and by the time I cleaned the lint screen and got the dryer going, I had forgotten all about the card.

This sort of forgetfulness is sometimes attributed to aging but I’ve been losing and forgetting things all my life. Some of us don’t even need to move. We have something in our hands, set it down, and it is gone.

I’m finally learning that what frenzied searching won’t do, calm reflection and prayer sometimes will. The coffee is something to enjoy regardless. And maybe a cookie.

Now, for you constant readers, I said in my last column that I was praying for a dear one who was going through a rough patch. To catch you up a little, things are better now. When I posted that essay on my blog, I added this:

“Post Script: the rough patch has passed, and my dear one is doing better. Not that I'll stop praying. Don't believe in praying? Just think of it as deeply and faithfully and constantly wishing all the best for someone you love, with all your heart and mind and soul. I believe this sort of thing tips the balance of the universe.”

Yeah. I do believe that. Looking at that paragraph now, I think perhaps I should have mentioned that even though you pray and think and wish and hope, you cannot control any outcomes. So don’t expect that.

I know. It’s a bitch. On the other hand, it works in our favor when someone is praying that God would smite us.

Coffee, prayer, and calm breathing are getting me through a lot of rough patches these days, both in my personal life and in my feelings about what is going on in the world. So much has stopped making sense.

I am still watching or listening to the news on Canadian television and radio frequently. It’s good to hear the news of the United States from the point of view of another country. You also realize that the USA is not the only country with problems.

Recently a group of Canadian politicians in their Parliament broke into singing, “Barrett’s Privateers,” a rousing Stan Rogers song/sea chanty, and it made the CBC news. They sang it badly, but still. When have you ever heard any of our legislators spontaneously break into a sea chanty?

Canadian politics became dear to me years ago. I was listening to CBC news, and they had a story about a bill that parliament had fought over. When it came time to vote, one side was certain the other side did not have enough members present to win and they were congratulating each other on what they were sure would be a victory.

Then, at the last minute, a gaggle of opposition voters jumped out from behind the drapes and voted and won.

American politicians never do anything fun like that.

Maybe I’ll pray for singing in our Congress when I have my coffee tomorrow morning. Singing, and prayer, and calm breathing.

Coffee is a personal choice.