We have Star Wars Day in May. Today, March 4th–let’s have a parade day! Let’s have a parade in support of Ukraine. Load up the flags with blue and yellow. Find some pom-poms. Today: March 4th.

I wanted to title this entry SOTU The Morning After, but yesterday’s gym routine went long and I ran out of “my” time. Hence, SOTU 2.0. In reality, that 24 hour wait might be a good thing. A little more reflection never hurt anyone.

Initially, my thought was that it was shorter than I thought it might be. It was only 70 minutes, including applause breaks, shorter than other recent STOU addresses. I appreciated the commentator who remarked post-speech, that President Biden did a good job, particularly given his issues with public speaking. I was grateful to note that this particular pundit was sensitive to Biden’s challenges. The moments when Biden’s brain got ahead of his mouth were clear to me. Having had issues with the same thing as well as having worked with the occasional student who stuttered, my ear catches those issues quickly. Still, I felt that he started well, and in spite of these moments, pulled off a rhetorical success.

His address was different, and yes, I think better than mine in several ways. It goes without saying that I am not a presidential (or a professional) speech writer. I recognize the passion with which he opened with his comments regarding the disaster in Ukraine. I feel similarly. In my heart I want to destroy Putin. I felt such anger at the lies that came out of the mouth of Russian foreign minister Lavrov in his interview with George Stephanopoulos. It made me want to throw things at the screen.

But that’s an argument for another time.

Moreover, the fact that the congress was unified in its response to this section of the speech was gratifying. I would assume that the powers that be in Russia were checking to see the response of the audience. Equally clear was the visual support for the people of Ukraine. The colors of blue and yellow showed well on the screen and the occasional glimpse of Ukrainian folk art as seen in a wonderfully embroidered peasant top and an appliqued skirt behind the Ukrainian ambassador sent a clear message of support. Would that we had seen more of that peasant top.

Yes, the president had a three-section speech. Yes, it got bogged down a little in the middle, and yes, it sounded much like his campaign speeches. Nevertheless, it did point out that we are not where we were a year ago. In terms of social contact, we are in a much better place. Today I get to sit in the library sans mask.

The hecklers? Really? At this moment, when we need to show a unified front, Loren Boebert of Colorado and Q-Anon advocate, Marjorie Taylor-Green of Georgia seem to have anointed themselves as hecklers-n-chief. According to a variety of internet sources, they kept a running commentary throughout the speech, most notably earning boos from their congressional colleagues when they shouted out “13” while Biden was segueing to note his own experience with a flag-draped coffin. Photos of the two of them exposed their classlessness. My mother would have been aghast and I am embarrassed for them even if they don’t have the good sense to be embarrassed for themselves. I felt sorry for the gentleman who sat between them. The SOTU is not a football game.

In the end, the president finished on a fiery note. It was a strong finish, and I appreciate that. Salieri remarks to Mozart in Peter Shaffer’s play Amadeus, “You know you didn’t even give them a good bang at the end of songs, to let them know when to clap.” Every good speech needs to have that bang rather than a whimper. The moment when Biden directly addressed the nation was, in my opinion, the most uplifting part of the evening.

Now as time goes on and we continue to see what happens in Ukraine as well as our own issues with inflation, especially the cost of energy, we need to accept that there will be sacrifices on our own part to maintain our own defiance of Putin’s invasion. Those degrees of separation from the events are not all that far. A dear friend has family in Krakow. As she said, now, including her daughter, her family has dealt with four generations of ” a war, evacuation, camps, and death.” The State of the Union may be words. Actions speak louder than words. It remains to be seen, the result of those words, both at home and abroad.

SOTU–State of the Union. The Constitution of the United States reads: The President “shall from time to time give to the Congress Information of the State of the Union, and recommend to their Consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.” Article II, Section 3, Clause 1. Actually, the original wording says “He shall from time to time. . .” because, of course, no woman (or trans, bi, or nonbinary person) would ever be president of the United States.

But that’s an argument for another time.

Warren G. Harding was the first to broadcast the speech on radio; Lyndon Johnson the first to broadcast on television. All previous presidents merely sent a letter to congress regarding the state of the union. Would that Biden would choose to do that, claiming that he was busy solving the problems of the world. On the other hand, the loyal opposition would denigrate him for being a coward and somehow defying “tradition.”

Right now, and over the past few days, I have thought about the SOTU with a combination of dread and hope. I dread the fact that in the joint session of congress because the response is not only so interruptive of a speech that should have more flow, but the response is so incredibly partisan. For example, I believe it was Barack Obama who praised teachers and acknowledged the importance of their work to both the individual and the county. True to form, the Democrat side of the House stood up and applauded. Not a single member of the Republican side responded. Really? The Republican members could not support the efforts of teachers? Perhaps I misremember and President Obama actually mentioned public school teachers. Perhaps the GOP members support only voucher/charter school teachers. Either way, it was the moment when I was done being an independent.

But that’s an argument for another time.

There was the moment during Obama’s 2009 SOTU when a representative from South Carolina shouted “You lie” when Obama addressed the issue of keeping one’s physician under the new health care law. Such class. I expect nothing less from the GOP tonight, when Joe Biden stands in the hot seat. I suspect there will be members in the audience who will adopt the customs of the English parliament and simply shout arguments aloud in the chamber. The address will take twice as long because of all the applause lines and interruptions. Yes, of course, applaud, but really? Is the speech so good that we have to double its length. I appreciate YouTube’s editing of the speech to eliminate the interruptions. I am tempted to spend time someplace other than in the TV room, then watch it on line tomorrow. We shall see. On the other hand, it is even faster to simply read the text online. Doing that gives me the option to see the form of the argument and then reread that which most interests me. What do I want to hear from the president tonight?

Honesty.

I don’t mean honesty in the sense that I want him not to lie. I want an honest assessment of this past year. Think about it. How refreshing would it be if the first line was something akin to The ship of state rides on a stormy sea. . . How refreshing would it be if there followed a series of balanced opposites: We said we would defeat COVID. We haven’t. But we have, because of project Warp Speed, been able to vaccinate X% of the population, bring down the death rate and the numbers of hospitalizations, and now, we are able to lose the masks in many parts of the country. What seemed to be an impossible jumble of approaches has coalesced into something more direct and positive. We started 2019 in a dark place. Now, in 2022, there is some light. Biology threw us more than one curve ball, and while we might not have yet hit it out of the park, we have at the very least, an extra-base hit.

Yes, we face high inflation for now, but nothing lasts forever, and as the country reopens, things will get better. There will be a morning in America. Nevertheless, while we face these challenges, we know we are a resilient nation. Nothing has stopped us when we understand what we are facing and how we can work together to overcome the issue. (Of course, herein follows example of economic progress.)

The ship of state rides on stormy seas. We don’t work together any more. I ran on uniting the country. Alas, I have not succeeded—yet. The divides are deeper than I understood and the willingness to reach across that divide is far less than I thought it was. I thought that we could put differences aside, that the needs of the country were far greater than the need for power. I was wrong. It is easy to fall into despair. The struggle to bring us together has been hard, I confess, and sometimes the task seems insurmountable, but there is hope. (Then this would be an opportunity for the president to offer some examples of those who have worked together.)

The ship of state sails on stormy seas. Perhaps from here the president can address the events in the world. On the other hand, maybe–and most likely–I have this backwards. Immediately, in the opening moments of the speech, address the events in Ukraine, the threat of nuclear war (this is not the first time), the refugee crisis, a crisis of democracy. Of course, then the president would address the coming together of the nations of the world to stand with Ukraine. I fear it is too little and too late. We shall see.

I don’t want to see what has become the “look at my guest” moment–that someone who represents some virtue or some action that needs to be recognized. Check this person out: here’s an example. The last thing I would want is to be paraded before the country in some sort of rhetorical show and tell moment. I was done with all of that well before the former president thought that recognizing Russ Limbaugh with the Presidential Medal of Freedom was the thing to do at the SOTU. Of all the behavior I have seen on the SOTU evening, most of which have been mildly irritating, the presentation of the Medal of Freedom to a ” brash and boorish persona, and his belief that white, male cultural centrality is, to quote the title of Limbaugh’s first book, “the way things ought to be,” paved the way for the political rise of the bombastic media performer currently sitting in the Oval Office.”*

The ship of state sails on stormy seas. I need the titular captain of the ship to be direct, honest, and forthright in his evaluation of both the good, the bad, and the possibilities of getting the ship through the storm and into calmer waters. Calm waters may be a relative term. I am not at all certain that there have ever been calm waters.

And that’s an argument for another time.

*https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/trump-giving-rush-limbaugh-medal-freedom-was-controversial-fitting-ncna1132121

No, I do not have lice. Ick. No, I am thinking about writers and editors who miss obvious mistakes. I know I have written about this before somewhere, but I have, once again, encountered the obvious. I promise to keep this a brief rant.

The copy of Jonathan Greenblatt’s It Could Happen Here: Why America is Tipping from Hate to the Unthinkable and How We Can Stop It I put on reserve came in. I confess here at the outset that I returned it without reading it. Over the past couple of years I have taken to exploring the index and the table of contents of nonfiction books before starting to read. I am not sure exactly why I picked up this habit, but there it is. For some reason I want to know what the last entry in the index is–who is the final “Z.” Then I look for other things. Is my state in here? Is there a name I might know personally? Is there an index in the first place or was this a book so hastily put to press that no one bothered to do the work of creating an index? And yes, I researched how to create an index. It came as no surprise that it is a great deal of work.

Still, little things will bother me because it makes me wonder about the other facts stated in the book. It’s a sign of carelessness somewhere in the publishing process. On the other hand, perhaps the editor(s) simply took it for granted that the author, the head of the Anti Defamation League in this case, knew what he was doing. The burning issue that made me go no further than the index? It was an entry about the Oak Tree massacre in Wisconsin.

I had never heard of the Oak Tree Massacre in Wisconsin, so of course I had to flip to page 206 to learn about this, even before beginning the rest of the book. It wasn’t the Oak Tree Massacre, but in reality, the Oak Creek massacre of six people at a Sikh temple just south of Milwaukee. That is, in my opinion, a fairly big mistake given the amount of press this event had generated nationally. If the author and the editors let this go by, what else might be incorrect? I read the introduction, but in truth, my feelings about the book were already tainted. I returned it without finishing it. It is clear to me that the incidents of antisemitism are increasing in our country. I might have sought out the second part of the title, How To Stop It, and checked that out.

Now I might have to go back in line and check out this book again. Sigh.

In the end, it is important to me that information is correct. I am not certain that it is my strong perfectionist inclination that sets me off or something else. I wonder if it comes from my own background in music composition and arranging. Mess up your manuscript, even by missing a dot in the right place, and things can really be a mess. Accuracy is vital when writing parts. So is it when writing an argument.

And on that, I think we can agree, is the truth.

Why is it that the entry I composed in my head last night, that entry that sounded so good, so relevant, so cogent and well constructed, by the light of day seems, well, meh? I had been thinking about languages. You know the old joke, dear reader. What do you call a person who speaks several languages? Multilingual. What do you call a person who speaks two languages? Bilingual. What do you call a person who speaks only one language? An American. I went on to muse on the issue of languages. This morning I woke up and wondered if I had actually written on this before. After all, this is entry number 670 (!) in this blog. I have been doing this for a while.

Still, what got me thinking about this was the issue of dealing with aging parents. Yes. I have leapt from being multilingual to dealing with aging adults. According to some research, those who are musicians and those who are at least bilingual have less mental decline as we age. Let’s be specific here, being bi- or multilingual means far more than having taken Spanish 101, knowing your colors, your parents, and how to ask for the rest room. It means being fluent. It means being able to converse without first translating. I have read somewhere that a language is mastered when one can dream in that language. At any rate, I wonder what will happen to the mother of a friend who at some point will have to go into a memory care facility if she reverts entirely back to her native Polish? How many places can accommodate her language needs? Yes, I know of another acquaintance who, as he aged, reverted entirely to his native French. Luckily, he and his family were in such a position and lived in such a place where there were French speakers on staff.

What happens next? Is there a place in this area where there are Polish-speaking caregivers in memory care centers? I am not at all certain, but I am confident that my friend is well aware of the issue. Only time will tell, I guess.

On the other hand, is there a place where the staff speaks Grumpy Old Man? I think it takes a great amount of patience to manage to give compassionate care when it is just as likely to be rejected by the person who receives it. I suspect that there are far more Grumpy Old Men than there are speakers of Polish around here.

Atual Gawande has a chapter in Being Mortal that deals with caring for aging populations. I would want to stay in the place he described: a place that had an aviary and a resident dog; a place that welcomed little ones to visit; a place with a library. Moreover, I liked his example of the doctor’s office that was next door to a nail salon. The medical staff trained the salon staff to assess the feet of older adults for possible problems with diabetes as well as how to trim the toenails of older adults who were no longer flexible enough to do it for themselves. Now that nail salon, I would go to.

In the end, I guess I have traveled a bit from my late night attempt at composing this entry. In thinking about it, I believe that at the root of musing about speakers of several languages was my concern for my friend and her mother. In the end, I think I have to resolve to bring this up the next time we meet for coffee. At least then there is a very good chance that she has already considered the issue and I can stop dwelling on it.

It seems that when I have one connection to a place, I find myself concerned when that place is in the news, the fact that I have not corresponded with that person notwithstanding. For example, I had a foreign exchange student in class who came to us from Kazakhstan. She was a bright, delightful student who not only completed her work in our classrooms but took time to study and prepare for her exams back home. When things happen in her part of the world, I think about her and wonder how she is doing. Similarly, when things happen in Turkey, I think about the friend who goes there annually to visit friends and family. What might he be thinking about whatever situation in in the news. Old acquaintances from Ukraine? Same thing, even though those acquaintances are here in the United States.

The connection doesn’t have to be concerned with places located halfway across the world. When my son went off to college in a city three hours from home, I connected with the local television meteorologist and asked him to include that city in the state wide weather report. Since this particular television personality is delightfully accommodating, he did just that for the next several years. Now that my son is still in the Midwest, but much farther from home, I watch carefully when the camera pulls back to show whatever latest front is advancing. I need to know what he faces. The same is true for relatives in the Southeast. Tornadoes? Severe storms? This writer needs to know. Friends on a trip to New York or elsewhere in the east? Ditto.

Maybe I am just a worrier. I have a need to know that the people I care about are safe. I need to know that they aren’t buried in a snowdrift, stuck on an icy interstate, or entombed in the debris left by some tornado.

Then there is conscious awareness in my daily life. Today I had my coffee in a cup that a friend gave me, so I thought about her when I enjoyed my morning joe. The same goes for earrings, believe it or not. Shall I wear earrings from Krys? From my girls? from Peggy? How about that necklace? Today’s t-shirt came from a Broadway performance of Something Rotten. I think about the person who thought of me and brought it home. If all these thought had a physical manifestation, it might look like a web of threads that connect me daily to the people I love. For them, and for those threads, I am grateful. Life is good.

It has been one of those weeks. With limited time away from home, a need for a break from the routine, and even though I have written down many ideas for posting, it seems that little of what I had written down was anything that could be developed beyond a paragraph or two. Little has worked out the way I wished it would have worked this week. Does that make any sense? Sometimes stuff happens. Ergo, in the meantime, to avoid continued intimidation on the part of the blank screen, I’ll post the little things.

I usually plan an hour at the computer to write a post and then edit it. It goes without saying that I have spent time thinking about it before I actually sit down at the keyboard. However, this week has been one of those where time has gotten away from me even before I start. For example, I picked up several Gaelic Storm CDs, thinking I would burn a compilation CD for myself. Then I began to wonder if I had the right sort of blank CDs that would allow me to add a little from one source, then a little more from another. Rather than mess around, I took time to listen to each title I wanted to burn; then I got lost in the Irish rabbit hole, so to speak. Irish music makes me happy even when it isn’t. Still, listening to “The night I punched Russell Crowe” more than once is certainly an indulgence. Then there’s “Punjab Paddy Boy” which really makes me smile. “Narwhaling Cheesehead”? Great, energetic instrumental. Really, who writes this stuff? I left more buoyant than I was when I came to the library, but guilty for not having written anything.

The big news in the sports world, besides the Olympic Games and the MLB lockdown, is the fact that Green Bay Quarterback Aaron Rogers, despite winning a fourth MVP, cannot seem to maintain a relationship. So far he has dated, lived with, and occasionally engaged Olivia Munn, Danica Patrick, and Shailene Woodley. If I were a young, professionally ambitious female, I would stay far from Mr. Rogers. Really, he might do better if he worried less about things like public status (or infamy?) and more about finding a future life partner who understood that being a professional athlete means sacrifices. If Rogers thinks a lot about football, then that’s what he has to do. Maybe Aaron Rogers needs to consult with Tom Brady about work/life balance and finding the right person with whom to share that life. One of those Midwest farmers’ daughters might actually be the more fulfilling choice.

Moving right along, it happened for the umpteenth time, as I was setting up the coffee pot, that I thought about K-cups. Really? Just because a pot can hold twelve cups doesn’t mean that one has to make twelve cups. In truth, the worst cup of coffee I had came from a K-cup in room pot in a motel where I was spending the night before a meeting. I understand that not all of us like our coffee the same strength, but on the other hand, this particular cup was simply gross. Moreover, I tend to visualize the collective number of little K-cups taking up space in landfills. I imagine a scene much like the moment in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 2 in the vault of Gringotts, where our protagonists were almost buried in the rapidly reproducing Hufflepuff goblets. It didn’t take me long to figure out how to brew four cups of coffee the way I like it in my 12 cup machine. I can compost the grounds and filter and then avoid making a contribution to the waste that comes from overpackaging.

Recent political news continues to confirm my distaste for the immediate past president of the United States–he who shall not be named. I can well imagine that he crumbled, tore up, tossed, papers. He never wanted to leave a trail that could pin him down for anything. How foolish of us to think that simply because he sat behind the Resolute desk in the Oval Office he would change. I am, once more, disgusted. He may ooze charm from every pore, oil his way across the floor, be the wheeler dealer he thinks he is, but he continues to reveal that he is not to be trusted with our democracy. My fear is that he will actually escape any sort of punishment and we will see him again on the campaign trail in the campaign for the presidency in 2024. Corrupt politicians occupy the 8th circle in Dante’s hell. I hope there is a spot reserved for the former president and those who would choose power at all costs over service.

Moving right along, that very possibility of facing another four years of chaos and disaster has me thinking again about moving to Canada. Recent events notwithstanding, I still see Canada as a place of civility. The idea that Canadians could create a Trumpian-type blockade over vaccinations when 90% of Canadian truckers are vaccinated seems absurd. Canada, the home of international nice, suddenly becomes something less. At any rate, I checked out a book on how to move to Canada. The process is long and expensive. It involves bureaucracy on steroids. Moreover, it seems that Canada is reluctant to have residents of my generation—and our Medicare does not follow us out of the country. The Canadians don’t want us on their national health insurance unless we have time to make some sort of significant contribution. I understand that. Like many countries, they are looking for younger, healthier, educated people who can contribute to their economy first. I don’t want to use the word “stuck” here, but on the other hand, I suspect that my options are certainly limited.  

Finally, I should let it be said that in general, things are Ok. I took time for myself this past Wednesday. While going to the gym would have done me much good, I decided to go instead to the lake. It has been far too long since I watched the waves and the gulls, letting myself escape into the stillness that the lake on a bright day holds. I love the lake on stormy days. I love to hear it and to watch the waves pound the shore, but a calm day makes me feel much as I do when I take time to sit by the river. It is a blessing. Then while I was on that side of town, I stopped at my favorite independent bookstore and bought a copy of Robin Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, then was happy to have found a used copy of Stiff by Mary Roach. I splurged and bought both. Kimmerer’s book is so lovely and one of my favorites, so I bought it brand new, albeit in paperback, and while I had heard much about Mary Roach’s work, I had never read any of her books. Truly, it is the bookstore that provides retail therapy for me. Other forms only leave me feeling guilty. Now I have had to tighten the budget belt, but I am happy in my choices. I am enjoying Roach at the moment and looking forward to indulging again in Kimmerer. There is such beauty in her writing.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that, and those are the words for today. There will come again a moment when I will have more to say about a single thing, but in this moment, I feel some success in having gotten this far. Happy Saturday!

This is Superbowl weekend. No one really mentions that it is the last football game of the season. After Sunday’s game, there are no more NFL games until next August. Even better, after Sunday’s game, everyone is undefeated again. Clean slate. 0-0. That works for me. I am interested in this game only because of the effort it took for both teams to achieve this event. The play-offs were exceptional this year. On the other hand, the whole drama of which player goes where is just beginning. Cue the ominous organ music.

I am waiting for news from Major League Baseball. The team owners have locked out the players as part of a labor dispute. This throws everything in flux. Pitchers and catchers were to have reported for spring training on February 15. My team has only listed a TBA for future scheduled events. I have always looked forward to spring training with a hopeful heart. Spring training epitomizes, for me, that Alexander Pope line about “hope springs eternal.” In truth, that line was included in that epic baseball poem, “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer:

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only Casey could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.”

We know how that adventure ended.

Nevertheless, it’s time to pack up the mitts, the balls, and the bats and head to warmer climes to, once again, hear the call “Play Ball” echo across the fields of green. Like the NFL, the MLB teams are also 0-0. A clean slate. Like the first day of school, a chance for a fresh start.

I can only hope. What is a spring without baseball?

Then there is the drama that is the Olympic games. Nathan Chen finally earned his Olympic gold. There is yet another doping scandal from the Russian Olympic Committee. Last night Mikaela Shiffrin finally made it down the mountain without skiing out. Still, my mind is on Shaun White, the 35 year old snowboarder who made his last competitive ride yesterday. Of course, he was emotional. He has been at this a long time–35 is ancient for most athletes, for a snowboarder, he may as well be the hoary man of the mountain. I have to admit that the younger riders have eclipsed the older. I think one has to be that young to be that fearless. The rides were amazing. While it may be true that Shaun White has retired, some sportswriters are posting entries that sound more like eulogies than tributes. The man is retired from competitive riding, he is not dead. Trust me, it is possible to be emotional in that moment. I have felt similarly and I am not an elite athlete.

With this in mind, I intend to lift a cuppa something. . .tea, coffee, hot chocolate, whatever. . .to all of it. To sport as entertainment. To sport as human drama. Congratulations, Nathan Chen and Chloe Kim, Godspeed, Mikaela Shiffrin, and hale and farewell, Shaun White. We’ll look for you in the broadcast booth.

Today is February 8. A week ago we were listing below zero wind chills. Today the predicted high is 40^o. For tomorrow, the weather forecasters have predicted the same. By the end of the week we will, once again, be below freezing. This is the time of year that I think of as the dismal time. One day we are basking in sunshine and, for February, relatively temperate conditions. The next, we are digging our way out of mounds of snow. I remember reading a novel years ago, wherein the protagonist wanted to escape the darkness of Norway in midwinter. For us, it’s more of a wish to escape what has been the considerable cloudiness of the upper Midwestern United States.

It is my habit to look out the window each night in search of the stars. While I live in an area that is lit far too well for much stargazing, I still search for friendly skies. At this time of year, I do the same in the dark of the morning. Lately I have had a tune running through my head from my favorite Gaelic Storm album about an Irish barmaid who is tired of the Irish winter and wants to go elsewhere:

She wants a Piña Colada in a pint glass…
She wants to be where the summer won’t stop
She wants gin clear water and milk white sand
A sunburned nose and a drink in her hand
With a pink umbrella on top!

It’s a catchy tune that easily becomes an earworm. No, I am not up for wearing a thong and a big straw hat on a sun-drenched beach. I do, however, appreciate 40^o when the opportunity comes. Late winter has it’s moments. Yes, February and March in these latitudes is a tease, but then, I can’t complain about the variety the weather presents. One of our local weather forecasters came to us from San Diego. What is the weather? Sunny and mild. Sunny and mild. Sunny and mild. For him, there was no challenge. Here, on the shores of a great lake, with all that the lake affects in terms of weather, the challenge of an accurate forecast is far greater.

What can I say?

Today I get to wear a lighter coat. If the prediction holds, I get to do the same tomorrow. After that, like life, there are no guarantees. Here, there is never a dull moment and I appreciate that.

Not so long ago a friend mentioned that her book club read was about the Iron Age female warrior, Boudica, who led the rebellion of the tribes against the Roman occupation of Britannia. The good news was that she found it an interesting read, but the bad news was that while she has a great memory, at the time she could not remember the title or the author. However, she did recall that this was a novel. Of course, I went hunting through the library catalogue where I discovered Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott.

This was a solid read that is well grounded in the tribal cultures of Iron Age Britain. Because the reviewer is a more concise writer than I am, I took the liberty of pasting the following brief excerpt from the Goodreads review:

It is 33 AD and eleven-year-old Breaca (later named Boudica), the red-haired daughter of one of the leaders of the Eceni tribe, is on the cusp between girl and womanhood. She longs to be a Dreamer, a mystical leader who can foretell the future, but having killed the man who has attacked and killed her mother, she has proven herself a warrior. Dreaming the Eagle is also the story of the two men Boudica loves most: Caradoc, outstanding warrior and inspirational leader; and Bàn, her half-brother, who longs to be a warrior, though he is manifestly a Dreamer, possibly the finest in his tribe’s history. Bàn becomes the Druid whose eventual return to the Celts is Boudica’s salvation.

Dreaming the Eagle is full of brilliantly realised, luminous scenes as the narrative sweeps effortlessly from the epic — where battle scenes are huge, bloody, and action-packed — to the intimate. Manda Scott plunges us into the unforgettable world of tribal Britain in the years before the Roman invasion: a world of druids and dreamers and the magic of the gods where the natural world is as much a character as any of the people who live within it, a world of warriors who fight for honour as much as victory, a world of passion, courage and spectacular heroism pitched against overwhelming odds.

Dreaming the Eagle was followed by Dreaming the Bull, Dreaming the Hound and Dreaming the Serpent Spear. I appreciated the depth of the author’s research into the time of the Roman occupation and the detailed, rich world she created, both in the tribes and in the Roman legions. I thought the experience was well worth the time it took to read all four books. I recommend the tetralogy to you, dear reader.

My issue, ridiculously enough, was with the cover art. Now I understand that a book is far more than its cover. Honestly. However, consider only the first book of the four. The library had an earlier edition, where the cover focused on the imagery of the tribes:

Each succeeding book cover was a variation on the one above. I found them interesting and compelling. Simple. Then, evidently book four represented a cover redesign:

Somehow we now have someone’s portrait of our warrior queen. I appreciate that the artist included her braid and the feather that denotes her kills. However, the Boudica was able to wear many more feathers than one. She has a lot more hair by the time we get to book four. For me, this feels more like some adolescent male’s fantasy about how a woman warrior should look–not entirely unlike the hunky, semi-bare chested males who hold the breathless woman on the cover of a bodice-ripper. This likely says far more about my more minimalist taste than anything else.

But here’s the issue: Why is it that strong women characters have to fight with long hair? Why must the long hair be unbound and fly around as she fights? Consider Mulan. Disney has her cut her hair when she leaves her family, but somehow Mulan has enough hair to tie into a topknot and then, in her final iteration, the hair has grown down to shoulder blade length. The live-action Mulan simply lets it fly. Disney Pocahontas? I always felt she was Barbie in buckskin.

This is not limited to big-screen characters. Remember Beckett, the detective in the televisions series Castle? Beckett is smart and determined. She is respected by the, largely male, members of the detective squad. At the beginning of the series, she has a cute, short haircut. Practical.

By the time the series ends, she is much more sexualized:

Did falling in love with writer Castle took some of the starch out of Kate Beckett?

Then there’s Brody in NCIS-New Orleans:

Then somewhere along the way, the grow-out:

By the time she left New Orleans, she had longer tresses.

Who makes these decisions anyway?

When Ellie Bishop joins Gibbs’ team in NCIS, her hair is just shoulder length. By the time she leaves for what seems like a much more dangerous set of undercover assignments, her hair is much longer and well styled. I have to give Ellie some credit for putting her tresses under a cap on occasions when she was out on assignment. Nevertheless, while Ziva joined the team with long hair, when she had an action scene the hair was well under control. Generally, when she took the shot, it wasn’t while dealing with a wind machine. When Ziva meant business, she meant business.

I know, this seems like a strange obsession, but there it is. I have always had a “thing” about hair that tumbles over the shoulders and down the bodice. It just seems impractical. An affectation. Yes, currently I am growing my hair out, but as it gets longer, the more I pin it back. No one sided cascade of curls for me. My goal is to see how long it will grow before I get to travel to see my son once more. Then the clippers will come out.

In the meantime, dear reader, take this rant for what it is: a rant. Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Check out the Boudica tetralogy and, with my hopes for you, enjoy the read.