A party at an inn in a forest by a lake

It's been two months since I returned from the event that brought me to Europe for a 3-week stay this spring. My friendship with Renate T., who I've known since my early days in Japan 25 years ago, resulted in a special invitation when R visited me in Denver last fall. She would celebrate a special birthday, her 80th, the following spring and she (along with her granddaughter Yoko) were planning a party to celebrate. Would I come? It was to be in her hometown, Aumühle, Germany, a small municipality north of Hamburg in Schleswig-Holstein.

I knew then that it was a done deal, but I waited until November to buy a plane ticket to Germany. And then this invitation came, decorated with photos of Renate as a child and the adult she is today, doing a lifelong favorite activity: reading. My anticipation grew.

Renate and I share February birthdays, but mercifully, for weather considerations, the party was planned for late April, a time when spring would be in the air and the days somewhat long. The location was the charming and historic Hotel Waldesruh am See, which translates to something like "forest rest by the lake". I would be treated to a two-night stay there. Ah--I was hooked.

This hotel, in a building dating back to 1737, is often described as "quaint"--WiFi service notwithstanding. Here's what it looks like from the front.

Both interior and exterior have no doubt changed a lot since the early 18th century, but there's certainly a feeling of previous decades--and centuries--inside: large vases of blooming shrub branches, dark wood paneling, faded photos of yesteryear's hunting parties.  My room delighted me, comfortable, with a casement window opening into the Sachsenwald Forest, now in early spring green. Here it is on the mid-morning day of departure. However, it's the untaken photo of the window in early morning, opening into a wall of green leaves filled with birdsong, that stays in mind.

In addition to the party, there was a special reunion--of three teachers who had not been together as a threesome for more than a decade. We taught languages at Tamagawa University in Japan: German by Renate, Spanish by Marimar, and English by me. We often enjoyed our "chatting power" as Marimar called it, over coffee after classes were done for the day. Then Marimar left for another university where she met and fell in love with Frank. They married, had a child, and eventually moved to Frank's home country, Germany.

Renate and I had visited several times during the past ten years, but I hadn't seen Marimar since she left Japan and moved to Nuremberg with her husband and daughter. The tears of nostalgia and joy in our eyes as we met up in the central train station in Hamburg is my strongest emotional memory. Arriving a day early, we traveled together to Aumühle. Here we are a day later before the party. From left: me, Renate's granddaughter Yoko, Renate, and Marimar.

Many other friends and family members came to the party from various places in Germany; other countries too, including Portugal, where two of Renate's cousins live. I was surprised to realize how many of the guests I had met before and well, how time does indeed pass. Renate's youngest son Fumihiko, his wife Masako and younger daughter Haruko had flown in from Japan a day earlier; oldest daughter Yoko came in from Kyoto, though she lives in Tübingen, the German university town where she's studying to be a doctor.I  had met the family when Yoko and Haruko were very young children. Renate's sisters were there, Susanne and Christine, who I met during my 2005 trip to Germany;  Susanne's partner Jo, and their two children, Johannes and Charlotte were there too. I first met Johannes, now over 30 and established in a career, when he was a tender youth of 17, staying in Japan for a few months to study Japanese. Charlotte, only 9 when I met her in 2005, is a pediatric nurse now. And there was Renate's brother, Hartwig and his wife Fadime, born in Turkey, who I first met during their visit to Japan;  and the former pastor of the German church in Tokyo came with her husband, reminding me of the church's amazing Christmas bazaar and concerts which I had attended several times during my years in Japan. And then there were the two grown children of Renate's sister Angelika, who died suddenly two years earlier. She was in many hearts, including mine, during this reunion weekend. With all of these memories, I felt tender toward this assembled group who shared my affection for Renate,  our very special friend/family member.

Here's the best of the group photos (sans me), set against a late afternoon forest backdrop. The young woman to the left of Renate, is her granddaughter Haruko, who sat next to me at the party and did a fine job as translator and charming lunch companion.

And oh, the party! There were tributes and presents, songs, a slideshow of Renate's many shared events with family over the years, even a literary quiz. Granddaughter Yoko gave an especially heartfelt tribute to the grandmother she loves and feels so much in common with. The Waldesruh staff brought us a delicious lunch of wine, cream of tomato soup, a ragout of Sachsenwald venison with green beans and potatoes (locally raised of course), and red berries with vanilla ice-cream. And during and after, smiles and conversations and catching-up stories, and photos; and it seemed to me, so much shared pleasure that this family, with its origins in a very small town in Germany, had spread so far over time and distance. Below is my favorite photo of Renate from that afternoon.

Evening came after a golden sunset, and Renate, Marimar and I had a chance to remember our language teaching days, as well as exchange news of our lives since then. An opened bottle of wine, Marimar's present, enhanced our "chatting power." I had last seen Marimar in Tokyo about a year after she had given birth to her daughter Amaya--now a cheerful, bright 9-year-old. How do I know? The following morning we Skyped with Frank and Amaya, who were at home in Nuremberg. That morning Renate, Marimar and I prepared to leave the Hotel Waldesruh shortly after a generous buffet breakfast of cheeses, meats, fish, breads, fresh fruit and yogurt, cold fresh juice, and some of the best coffee I ever had. We dined in style. A photo of the breakfast room: 

 

Then lots of goodbyes, hopes expressed for meeting again, a walk to the train station in the cool morning air. Marimar encouraged me to visit her and Frank and Amaya in Nuremberg. And who knows, maybe with Renate in Spain in two years. ("I'd like to take you there", Marimar had told us the night before.) A very good idea we agreed.

I was due to meet Renate in two days for the start of our 9-day trip to Poland, which I looked forward to. Yet, as I told Marimar, very, very sincerely, no matter how wonderful Poland would be, this weekend would remain the highlight of this journey.

This Pridefest is brought to you by....

Denver's Pride Parade--or The Coors Light Pride Parade--was Sunday, and thousands of others, I found a spot along the East Colfax route to watch what is truly Denver's best party. For two and a half hours, laughing, dancing, singing marchers--on foot or on float--paraded down the street enroute to a rainbow festival of food and entertainment in Civic Center Park. I had hoped to be part of the parade, as I have in the past few years, but a wonky foot led me to a chair under a shady tree instead. Watching is of course, a big part of the fun so no regrets there.

As I often do, I summoned up one of my younger selves--one who would have been marching in the early 80s down this street, a time when the AIDS epidemic was at its peak and the legalization of gay marriage was far from a possibility in anyone's minds. More a protest than a parade, though I remember its playful irreverence, such as the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence--gay men dressed as nuns--posing on cathedral stairs. This younger self would have felt awe and joy at how mainstream LBGTQ acceptance has become--though in fairness she would not have used most of that acronym--just "L" and "G". At the same time, she would have been appalled at just how corporate everything has become. Perhaps she would have stalked off and joined her friends in the park to grouse about it. We would have thoroughly dissected the rainbow equivalent of "green-washing", a distraction from corporate practices that should be questioned.

Coors was a major sponsor of the parade this year, as it has been for a number of years now, but it was not the only one backing Pridefest, the weeklong celebration preceding the parade. Other big players were Walmart, Wells Fargo, Nissan, Smirnoff, Comcast Xfinity, along with Channel 7TV and The Colorado Department of Health and Environment. There were a host of supporting and participating sponsors too--retail outlets, oil and gas companies, banks, among others. (Click here for a full list.) Many, many other groups participated, not for profit, but with a message to share: churches, non-profits, politicians, cultural and student groups. My beloved square dance group, The Rainbeaus, danced their way down the street, while behind them the Mile High Freedom Band played.

Older Kathy is less likely to rush to judgment, while lamenting the fact that Coors beer has been and probably remains a taste abomination, far inferior to the numerous craft beers in Colorado. Craft breweries were banned from selling their tasty wares because of the deal with Coors and instead held an alternate event in West Denver. (Perhaps I'll take younger Kathy there next year.) Older Kathy would have also pointed out the fact that sponsorships underwrite programs for the LBGTQ community at The Center all year long. And--let's face it--we're in a corporate age, in which non-corporate funds are scarce and the costs of putting on any public event--insurance, security, materials--are well outside the limits of passing the hat around.

Seeing the youthful energy and creative decorations of the marchers on Sunday, I found it impossible to be churlish. This year was the 50th anniversary of what's now called the Stonewall Uprising, that night in June when patrons of the Stonewall Inn in NYC rebelled against the police harassment they were constantly subjected to. That rebellion provided the energy to launch a gay liberation movement that led to such amazing changes in US culture. The results of this long struggle led to Sunday's celebration, which I cheered on along with everyone else.  I didn't take a single picture, knowing that The Rainbeaus' chief photographer, Frank Bull, would share his album with me and other club members. Here are a few photos I downloaded from his collection. The first one expresses the conviction I'm sure all would share.

And this one expresses the contradictions. Corporations may well have excellent hiring practices for LBGTQ job seekers, but their work in the world raises questions, such as: How is our community affected by fracking of oil and gas in Colorado?

I enjoyed the creativity here on this float and many others.

Then too, the spirit of protest still lives.

Skipping the party, I headed toward the bus stop on 17th, ready to give my foot a complete rest. Two women passed by and pressed a rainbow crown in my hands--with the King Soopers supermarket logo. How appropriate, I smiled to myself. And at the same time, in my heart, I thought: Until next year--all good wishes for pride, activism, persistence and above all--love.

Thoughts on two days in Iceland

Written in Iceland, posted a week later in Poland....

Last fall when I started planning a spring vacation to Germany to join my friend Renate’s 80th birthday celebration, I began searching for flights. I had heard that Icelandair had excellent fares and indeed they did. Best of all, they encouraged their customers to stop over in Iceland for a few days at no extra charge. How could I say no to that offer? I added two days in Iceland to that plan, and as a result, I’m sitting here in a hostel in Reykjavik this April evening. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll fly to Hamburg for Renate’s party preceded by two days on my own.

Coming to Iceland was an excellent choice. Partly because travel always intensifies days and I love that. Habitual mind is broken and so many new experiences enter into a day. The result may not always be good, but it’s never ever boring. In this case, it’s all been good. A few observations on why that’s so:

First, I got over 90% of jet lag on my first day—after a 7-1/2 hour flight and 6-hour time difference. A combination of common sense, such as putting yourself on the new schedule before you arrive. Taking a homeopathic remedy (Jet Zone tabs) which either worked or showed the power of the placebo effect. And finally, toughing it out a bit on Day 1 by resisting sleep until it was time to go to bed on the new schedule. My matttress here at the Downtown HI Hostel was very comfy and I enjoyed a deep uninterrupted sleep.

Second source of pleasure—the allure of a bargain. Yes, the flight fare was a bargain and so was the hostel, but Iceland is infamous for high prices. On day 1 I went to the Reykjavík Art Museum (free to seniors over 67!), and took a dip in one of the city’s thermal pools—also free for seniors and nominal cost to others. I wandered around the Harpa culture center and admired it’s multicolored glass roof. I splurged on a $20 ticket at the Perlman Planetarium, seduced at the prospect of seeing the Aurora Borealis after the season was over. The fact that it was on the Planetarium ceiling and not outdoors bothered me not one whit. The swim ended the day, and I bought dinner (quite tasty sushi at a small convenience grocery) and savored it in the hostel kitchen. Enough for one day!

Third satisfaction—The Golden Circle tour that just about every tourist takes, including a state park, a series of geysers, and an amazing powerful waterfall. Our minibus tour guide gave us many insights into Icelandic history and culture, and the day ended with a soak in another thermal pool—The Secret Lagoon (not very secret at all, but a sensible venture into tourism by a farm family.

Photos coming. The first is an ordinary house in the center of Reykjavik. Notice the open window pane on the right side. Geothermal energy heats houses and if you want it cooler and/or ventilated, just open the window!

Below: The glass windows in the Harpa building.

Below: the view from the Downtown Hostel cafe: lots of grafffiti.

On the Golden Circle route: The American and Euro tectonic plates meet here—well, within 5 km.

An unscheduled stop. A local farmer puts his elderly horses for happy tourists to feed (approved candy only) and pet.

A powerful beautiful waterfall.

2018 in eight photos

So many images appear in my photo feed from this year, virtually all happy and beautiful times, since I tend to avoid taking photos of sorrow. Of course the year had its share of disappointments and loss, and I remember them in this season for looking back. Today, however,  I'd like to share with you some of my happiest times this year. Perhaps they'll resonate with your memories as we all slide into 2019.

First up: January 20: The second women's march in downtown Denver drew tens of thousands of participants, including me, hoping for inspiration to survive and resist another year with T-rump in the White House. There were so many creative signs and so much energy. I was particularly charmed by this pink-hatted group of family and friends, proclaiming their support of inclusive human rights. Another march is planned for January 2019--and I'll be there. Perhaps there will be things to celebrate as a new Congress convenes.

April: Oh, what a joy spring is. This flowering tree is in City Park, where I walked nearly every day I was home--my apartment being across the street from this oasis of trees in Denver. This photo was taken on April 1. In just a few short months now, this yearly miracle will return.

July: A neighbor in my senior apartment building in Denver turned me on to Postcards To Voters, a project started by "Tony the Democrat", a Georgia man who organized postcard-writing campaigns for Democratic candidates running in special elections and the midterms. Focus was on flippable districts and the concept was simple: one handwritten postcard to one registered voter in a particular district. I got together with neighbors several times during the summer to write postcards for various campaigns. Our first was Danny O'Connor who was running for Congress in Ohio (special election and later the midterms). He lost, but came closer than any other Democrat to winning in his district. My neighbors and I enjoyed getting to know candidates around the country and in the process, getting to know each other better.

Early September: As often I could this summer, I spent time at my cabin on Linda Lane's land in Florissant, a rural area west of Colorado Springs. The cabin (pictured here next to a 3-sided carport which looks bigger than it is) is actually a park model RV which I bought 16 years ago when I was still in Japan. Still summer, though Linda's wearing a jacket, as mornings are chilly here at nearly 9000 feet above sea level. I love the big sky and having time to gaze at it. Although I have better photos of the summer sky--some amazing sunrises and sunsets, this photo is one of my favorites from the land this year.  On most mornings, I enjoyed taking a walk with Linda and Belle, her border collie.

Mid-September: Renate (at right) is a treasured friend who I met in Japan when we were teaching at the same school--she taught German classes while I taught English. She came to visit me for the first time in Denver this year as part of a cross-country trip across the US and Canada. Here we are at the Denver Botanic Gardens one sunny morning. I plan to meet her next spring in Hamburg, Germany, when she celebrates a special birthday.

Late September:  I've enjoyed many good meals during 2018, but one of the most special was during a visit to the Orozco clan, part of my extended family, at Laura and John's house in Crystal Lake, Illinois. They outdid themselves with a feast of shrimp cocktails and homemade tamales amid other tasty sides. Love this photo of them and so proud to be part of this family. I don't see nearly enough of them. A wonderful day it was.

And then I spent a very fine week in Chicago with my sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Jim, before heading to the Loyola University Campus for my 50th college reunion. Yes, it's been half a century since I graduated from Mundelein College, which became part of Loyola in 1991. It was avery special weekend and I'm still processing all of the feelings that arose from seeing my classmates, being feted with events and tours, remembering how we were and learning how we are now. I have a number of photos from that weekend but this might be my favorite--Friday night before it all started, when some of us gathered in the lobby of the Hampton Inn in Rogers Park, ate pizza, drank wine, and plunged into sharing our lives over the past 50 years. Those red beanies? Yep, we wore them freshman year LOL.

October: A day after returning from Chicago, I began another reunion--with two wonderful friends from Japan: Junko (who I consider my Japanese sister) and Reiko, who I first met more than 20 years ago. We enjoyed 3 weeks together--mostly traveling. First, to the Tetons and Yellowstone National Park, then Denver, then a week in New Mexico. On our last day visiting the Tetons, we took a hike to a beautiful lake, and this is the scene and spirit of that day. Loved every minute, and it was all new territory to me as well as to them. Here's Reiko (left) and Junko, on the path toward the lake and those amazing peaks.

So many other photos I could have chosen, but I'll stop here. Reiko's wave seems somewhat symbolic of waving at the past before heading into the future. I hope you enjoyed my moments of joy. May you have many of your own to create and remember in 2019.

In memory of Gillian Shaw

This morning I woke up to what I thought would be an ordinary day, nascent cold notwithstanding, and opened my email. "Sad news", wrote a friend, telling me that Gillian Shaw, a friend and former colleague for many years in Japan, had died on December 4.  It was sudden, I later learned from her closest friend, the woman who had shared her home. When she complained of chest pains, an ambulance was called, but Gillian's heart stopped on the way to the hospital. She had turned 70 just a week earlier, celebrating her birthday with our mutual friend in a special restaurant we all liked. She was still living in Japan, her adopted home since leaving England many years ago. Below is a photo of Gillian, taken at Italiana Restaurant, on her birthday in 2009.

It's evening now, and I've been thinking of Gillian ever since I read the news. Besides the shock of any sudden death like this one, there's the secondary shock, like after an earthquake, often worse. I will never, ever see Gillian again, and any kind words unsaid or issues unresolved will remain that way. Fortunately, over time, she and I had gone a long way to resolving ours. We taught together at Tamagawa University for 15+ years until I retired nearly a decade ago. During those years we sometimes rubbed each other the wrong way, so it was not always an easy relationship.

Things changed as I was getting ready to leave Japan eight years ago. I found myself with more stuff than I knew what to do with, and Gillian was instrumental in helping me cart and carry. She liked to bake--her own creations, seldom from a recipe--and shared them with me, another boost to the packing process. To my relief, she took what she or neighbors could use from my pile of possessions,  practiced as she was in living on a shoestring and repurposing things. I felt humbled by her help, and promised to continue our connection after I returned to the US.

Gillian wrote me after I left Japan--long handwritten letters. She wrote in great detail about her garden, her childhood in England after her parents' first family (four siblings) died in a bombing raid during World War II. She wrote about her early days in Japan, the books she was reading, about the little girl next door, a child she befriended through her growing-up years. Years earlier Gillian and her long-time friend, Michiko-san, bought a house together near the university--not ideally constructed or situated--so there were always stories about household projects. She was a skilled carpenter, and for a number of summers she donated her time and skills to a non-profit working with deaf children in The Philippines. I always looked forward to her letters, always interesting, hopeful, showing interest in my new life as well. Over time I came to believe that writing had allowed a different relationship to emerge between us, one far more satisfying than the one we had before. Later we switched to email for convenience, but it's the letters, written on the backs of calendar pages and sent in slim envelopes with beautiful postage stamps, that I treasured most. I saved most if not all of them.

In many ways, life was not easy for Gillian, who did not marry and had no children. Her parents were long gone, she was estranged from her sister in the UK, and only occasionally in touch with a brother who had emigrated with his family to South Africa. She was a part-time teacher for all of her career in Japan, with all of the insecurity that brings. When I first met her, she was teaching at other schools as well as Tamagawa, but as Japan's demographics changed, classes dried up, and her class load was significantly reduced. Through it all, Gillian, a former missionary, was buoyed by her Christian faith and belief that God was looking out for her.

She retired two years after I did, but remained closely tied to the university. She was a frequent visitor in the Agriculture Department, and enjoyed visiting a professor in the English Department, one who shared her love of reading English novels. Health was also a challenge for her. She had mobility difficulties as well as heart and breathing troubles over the years, so the cause of her death was not a total surprise.

The last time I saw Gillian was on my trip to Japan in early 2016. We talked of ordinary things--the changes at the university, her continuing difficulty walking, a variety of hopes and worries, the closure of Italiana--our favorite restaurant in the neighborhood and scene of many birthday parties over the years, and of course, the plants she had in her garden.  We parted, expressing hopes to meet again on my next trip, travel no longer being an option for her. As is the case with most of the time when death comes suddenly, we did not guess this would be the last time.  Below: Gillian, me and RT outside The Harvest Restaurant in Shin-Yurigaoka during that visit.

Her last message, however, came just two days before she died. She talked about her wonderful birthday lunch at The Harvest with RT, and her promise to write soon. I had not answered yet. If I shared her belief in God and an afterlife, I'd send a loving response with a nod up to heaven, but I'll have to settle for keeping her memory alive and sharing something of her life with you. We will remember you, Gillian.

Shaking hands with John Kerry

Even though I'm living less than a 15-minute walk away from Tattered Cover, my favorite bookstore in Denver, I sometimes have to rouse myself out of my evening settled-in state at home. Besides offering thousands of books, excellent coffee and a warm atmosphere, TC also has author talks. Last Monday, the eve before the election, John Kerry was scheduled to speak. I almost skipped it, but at the last minute, threw on my coat and walked over. I'm glad I did.


Listeners line up at Tattered Cover after John Kerry's talk Nov. 5

The last time I looked carefully at who John Kerry was and is was in 2004, when he ran for president.   Bush Jr. was up for reelection, a year after he defied international protests and warnings, and invaded Iraq, that costly conflict which is still continuing today. Surely the country was ready for a change, my friends and I reasoned.  I was living in Japan then, a participant in the Japan chapter of Democrats Abroad--a group for American ex-pats around the world who want to stay part of the political process. A year earlier many of us had been in the Tokyo anti-war march opposing any invasion of Iraq. Kerry was not the favorite with this group; the more left-of-center Howard Dean was. Kerry, after all, had voted to authorize the invasion of Iraq two years earlier. Later, he later came to see the error of his vote on that, just as he came to change his views on Vietnam. He went from military hero to antiwar activist in the 60s--this man of honor who had the courage to reflect and change. Dean's campaign derailed, Kerry won the nomination, and Democrats Abroad continued with it's major task of helping overseas voters get their absentee ballots in.

As with so many past moments, my emotional memory of the 2004 election stands out above the circumstances and facts. As the votes were tallied, I was watching the returns online in my living room with two friends. As Kerry's loss appeared certain, my friend Louise phoned. "Oh, Louise!" "Oh, Kathy!" is my memory of that conversation before all the parsing of what went wrong. It was an election Kerry should have won.

Kerry's visit to Denver last week led me to revisit the factual details of the election. Chief among them was the GOP-led "swiftboating" attack. Kerry was a decorated war hero in Vietnam as a result of his service on a Swiftboat crew, running against an incumbent who had dodged military service. An ad appeared challenging his record--an ad that was later discredited, but not before major damage was done. (Read more about it here.) Other problems--voting irregularities in Ohio, the selection of the later-disgraced John Edwards as running mate--took their toll as well.

Kerry visited Denver as part of a book tour for his 600-page memoir, Every Day is Extra. A review of the book in the New York Times says one of Kerry's lingering regrets is that he didn't stop his campaign cold to address those unfair and damaging attacks. Yet his talk before a packed house at Tattered Cover did not dwell on regrets, but rather on the seriousness of problems facing us and what can be done about them. Talking on the eve of the election, he opened by asking us all if we had voted. Of course we had. And then he talked about climate change and the importance of the Paris Climate Accord which he helped negotiate as Secretary of State under President Obama. He talked about the importance of leadership and the problems created in its absence. He talked about his friendship with the late Sen. Ted Kennedy and John McCain and the importance of having bipartisan relationships in Congress.

Listening to Kerry last week, I remembered how we once took a presidential candidate's ability to explain and inspire for granted. How sorely I miss it today--though I know it exists in the campaigns of so many of the Democratic victors in the midterm elections. I wanted to thank Kerry for his lifetime of work and his continuing service to democratic process, but book-buyers were lining up to have him sign their copies, so I left the room, pleased that I had attended. Being a confirmed library user, I did not buy the book; actually, at 600 pages, I decided I'd read this one in review. I wandered upstairs to browse new titles before walking home.

Some time later, standing near a shelf of new releases, I became aware of a familiar voice next to me. Kerry was talking with store staff, standing less than 2 feet away. He was asking if there was a restaurant nearby, and I felt slightly annoyed on his behalf. (Don't book talk arrangers think of attending to their guests' creature comforts anymore? Did they ever?) I trust someone took him out to dinner. For my part, I waited to catch his eye. I put out my hand and said "Thank you"--for everything". A firm handshake and smile ensued from this man, a man of courage and honor.

Breaking up is hard to do

For quite some time now I've been thinking that it's time for us to call it quits, but I kept pushing the thought away. After all we've been together a long time--about 10 years now. And like so many long-term couples, I've grown accustomed to your features, you almost make the day begin.

I found you as I was getting ready to leave Japan and return to live in the US. You were like a lifeline to my past and bridge to my future. You helped me find others from my past--old friends and former colleagues and students--in this world of lost emails and phone numbers. When I made new friends, you were involved then too. Over time, you took on even more roles. You became my de facto social secretary. You gave me a nudge when friends were having a birthday, kept me current with births, marriages and deaths, the slow but sure growth of friends' children, reminded me of upcoming events I was interested in, helped me stay current with favorite groups and organizations, amused me when all I really needed that day was a funny cat or dog video. You made life not only more efficient and organized but interesting as well. I came to rely on you for news stories too, via links posted by friends. And you didn't charge me a cent! I thank you for that, I really do. I'm going to miss all of those things, truly.

Things have changed, though. The first time I really understood that there was a price to be paid for all of this service. You had sold my data to third parties without my knowledge. And even worse, it became apparent that your lax controls had allowed bad actors to influence the 2016 U.S. presidential election, leading to an unexpected outcome, tragic for me and so many others. Earlier this year, your chief representative Mark Zuckerberg, apologized to Congress. He promised to do better. He said his team had been "slow" to see the threats and was now taking steps to remedy problems. I believed you, perhaps mostly because I wanted to. I rationalized it all by saying that there are no secrets that can't be found on the Internet, regardless of whether one was partnered with you or not.

Then last week--another jolt. I watched the two-part Frontline program, The Facebook Dilemma. It was then that I realized that "slow" was a euphemism for "refused to listen". People in the Middle East, The Philippines, The Ukraine, and Myanmar, had tried to tell you--repeatedly. Tried to tell you that fake accounts were flooding users' pages, exploiting fears, and the worst elements of tribalism. People died because of this. You could even say it led to genocide and the subversion of peoples' movements for justice.

Were any significant controls attempted during those years, Mark? That's unclear from the program, but what is clear is that the problems continue. Steps have been taken, I learned. More checkers around the globe, fluent in local languages, for example. Yet, chillingly, one of your current representatives said flatly that the problem cannot be solved, not at the scale your organization operates. It can only be contained.

In all fairness, I have to look at my own role in this relationship--my readiness to take shortcuts. I've been spending way too much time scrolling through stories--stories I usually soon forget because there are so many. Some say you designed it this way as an addictive process. But I'll let that go for now, as this paragraph is about me. The fact is I willingly let you take charge of things for me, and now I'm about to be on my own again. I'm looking forward to that, actually. To making better connections with friends--beyond "like" or "sad" or "angry". I plan to reactivate this blog, dormant since January, as a place for exploring ideas and sharing stories about my past, present and future. I hope any of you who wish to connect with me this way will subscribe or check in from time to time. You can use this encrypted link: https://kathyintransition.blogspot.com.

As for Facebook, I'll keep my account open for awhile. You, my friends, can send a personal message about the best way to stay in touch with you, if you wish. At some point, I plan to deactivate and then delete the account. Apparently the latter is not easy to do. (For a step-by-step guide, go to this link.)

I look forward to keeping in touch with you, my Facebook friends--and to doing something interesting with the 10+ hours I formerly spent every week scrolling through the Facebook screen.