Gardens on my Mind

January 5, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Yesterday, I watered my lawn. Perhaps it didn’t need the moisture, but when the temperature gets up to 74 degrees this time of year, it’s better to be sure the grass has the water it needs. I read and blogged about eighteenth century gardens. And I made a few sketchy notes in my new RHS Gardener’s Five-Year Record book, though there’s not a lot to record this time of year. Mostly, I just mentioned the weather and that the larkspur seedlings are making themselves at home.

This seems an odd time of year to be thinking of gardening, and yet for most people this is when the fun is — looking through catalogs and planning what to buy to fill in one’s garden. Not me, though. I usually wait until the local hardware store stocks up on plants and get whatever is available. Or I wait until fall and buy chrysanthemums and whatever else likes to be planted so late in the year.

Still, I have gardens on my mind. In the back of my Gardener’s Record Book, is a section to list any gardens I wish to visit. That’s a section that will remain blank. Any gardens I wanted to see, I already have, as well as a few gardens I’d never heard of until I was actually there.

For example, when I went to stay with a friend during my 2016 Cross-country trip, she took me to see Fort Worth Botanical Gardens. The highlight of that visit was the exotic butterfly garden in their conservatory.

She also took me to see the Chandor Gardens, a series of formal gardens created by Douglas Chandor, a renowned English portrait painter. Living artistry was certainly his calling!

The Calloway Gardens in Georgia was a garden I found on my own. I was lucky to get there just when the Azaleas were in bloom, and oh, my! So lovely.

Calloway Gardens calls the Overlook Azalea Trail the most beautiful place on earth, though that claim is rivaled by the Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden in Portland. Another gorgeous place that a friend in Portland took me to.

Though not technically a garden, the Antelope Valley Poppy Preserve in California is up there with the best in beauty.

And though not a garden at all, the Painted Desert in Arizona certainly acts as if it is.

Despite all that loveliness, I have to say that there is nothing like one’s own garden. Even though mine doesn’t have the panoramic beauty of those gardens I visited, mine finds its beauty in the work I’ve done, the thought I’ve put into it, and the fact that it is here and not in some far-flung state.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Gardens, Now and Then

January 4, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I recently finished reading a book that was so unmemorable, just about the only thing I remember is how bad it was. I certainly don’t remember the title or the author. I do remember, however, all the talk of eighteenth-century gardens.

I didn’t know that there were various styles of gardens. I just figured people did what I am doing — create their own garden using the space, the climate, the soil, and their own sense of practicality to best utilize the area.

I started with a gravel border around my house to protect the foundation, which unfortunately didn’t keep one corner from collapsing. Luckily, that’s fixed, now. Whew!

Then I figured out where I would want to walk in the yard, and had pathways put in. When I moved here, there were only weeds and rocks and uneven ground to trip the unwary, so those pathways were important, especially as I knew I wouldn’t be getting any younger. (Though, who knows. Stranger things have happened, I’m sure.)

When the old garage was torn down, the concrete slab in front of that derelict building was left in place, so I used that as a foundation for a gazebo. And where the garage was, I had a raised garden built.

The rest of the yard, I filled in with bushes, grass, a couple of trees, and lots of flowers. That part of the garden is always a work in progress since plants die, seed themselves, and new flowers beg to be planted.

So, there is some balance in my yard: a few distinct areas, a couple of places to sit, grassy areas, places to grow vegetables. Best of all, it gives me something different to look at with every turn of the path.

Apparently, this isn’t the way everyone gardens, or even the way people used to garden. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were definitely planned out. They weren’t actually hanging gardens (if they even existed), but were “overhanging” gardens, supposedly built as ascending terraces, planted with trees, bushes, and flowers, to create a luxurious green hill.

In the eighteenth century (what all this was leading up to), gardens were geometric, with the various pieces of the geometry shape enclosed by hedges to create outside rooms. A pleasure garden for picnicking. A kitchen garden. flower gardens. Topiary gardens. Gazebos and other outbuildings. Water décor such as fountains and ponds. And tree-lined paths to connect the sections.

Such gardens, as well as gardens before and after, needed architects to get everything correct. Even though in my haphazard way, I have a few elements of an eighteenth-century garden, such as distinct garden areas, paths, and a gazebo. Unlike eighteenth century gardens, I have grassy areas, as well as wild areas. But then, I didn’t set out to create such an historical garden. Didn’t even know they existed, to be honest.

Admittedly, my yard is a lot smaller than the usual eighteenth century garden, and I spent a fraction of the cost, but that was never the point. The point, for me, was . . . Hmmm. I’m not sure what the point was of creating my garden. What I wanted when I moved here was a work-free yard, one that took care of itself. And yet, what I have is . . . well, a mini park that takes a lot of work!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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My Interesting Morning

January 3, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I had an exciting morning — a census taker came to my house, which had been selected as part of a randomly selected sample for the American Community Survey. It was my address that was chosen, not me, but still, they wanted my personal information. I don’t know why I hesitated to give my name, and in the end, I didn’t — the census guy said he could put down “lady of the house,” which I agreed to, but I felt silly. They had my address, obviously, and my phone number, so my name would be readily available if they really wanted it. Still, it was one of the few rebellions one such as I (a quiet person not given to demonstrations) is allowed.

I questioned if my participation was necessary, and he pointed to the paragraph that said I was required by law to respond to the survey. I was given a few options: talk to him, do it online, or do it by email. I gave in with good grace, and went ahead and answered his questions. And he answered mine as to the purpose of the survey.

Supposedly, it’s about trying to get people in rural areas a more equitable property insurance, that our insurance out here in the boondocks shouldn’t be dependent on the fires in other states and people in large cities. Which I agree with. People in rural areas, especially people who live in states where the power is centered in a couple of large cities with completely different values, have little representation. Almost everything that happens here is decided in the front range cities. Our vote counts for little in the state, and even in the federal government. Our senators come from the cities, and even the one representative we have doesn’t represent us, only herself. (When it seemed as if she would lose her bid for a second term in Colorado’s Third Congressional District, she moved to the Fourth District, to avoid a difficult rematch. So it’s readily apparent where her loyalties lie.)

After the survey, the census taker and I continued to talk about the problems of living in an area of little to no representation, and we eventually segued to talk of our non-representative’s bill to reschedule the repayment of the Arkansas Valley Conduit Project. He knows more about this region than I do, since he has lived in this area for most of his life, and his family before him. He mentioned the same thing I did — that in the decades since the project was first approved, the rural cities themselves put forth the money to build filtration plants, so the supposed 50,000 people the project is supposed to serve is probably half that. And, as he pointed out, with cost overruns and project delays, few people alive today will be around to benefit. And, considering that these distant rural areas are losing populations, there will be even fewer.

What we both wondered, is where the money is going. Since nothing that Colorado has done since I moved here has benefited this area in any way, the questions have to be asked — why here, why now?

It’s possible that our non-representative is trying to make herself relevant, but who knows. It’s this sort of insanity that creates conspiracy theories. But then, as a prolific reader of mysteries, I know to ask: cui bono. All I know, is it’s not I who will ever benefit.

I’m also sure that filling out the survey won’t benefit me — insurance companies, like states, don’t care about the far-flung rural residents who can’t benefit them, so chances are, nothing will change.

Still, it was an exciting morning. Maybe it wouldn’t have been for you, of course, but for me, who spends most of my time alone and in my own head, it was interesting to talk to someone who knew more of the truth than I do.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Out With the Old, In With the . . .

January 2, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Out with the old, in with the . . . same old, same old.

There isn’t any appreciable difference between December 31 and January 1 except for a new calendar. Of course, we pretend there’s a difference because . . . well, because we think there should be a difference. The only time there was a difference, at least in my life, was when it came to school years, and even then, the difference wasn’t appreciable since the first days of the new school year often duplicated the last of the old one as we reviewed the previous year’s work.

But now, as an adult, nope, there’s not any difference between the old and the apocryphal new. In fact, as far as I remember, I never did anything for the new year until after Jeff died. Then, I wanted to do as much as I could to make my new single life different from my old shared life, so once or twice, I even stayed up to midnight and toasted the new year with a glass of bubbly — sparkling cider, if I remember correctly. I wanted a change of focus, a turning away from the way I wished things were to the way things are and maybe even to the way things were meant to be. And that seemed to help me continue on without the person who’d been the focus of my life for so many decades.

What helped during those grieving years now seems ho hum. I do, sometimes, play around with New Year’s resolutions in an effort to make the new year seem new again, or at least to make myself seem new again, but resolutions don’t really help. It seems to me that making a resolution sets one up for failure. Because if you plan to do something for a year, chances are, you won’t continue when the year ends, and if the resolution is going to end, then why wait until the end of the year? Why not in June, or February, or even today?

Still, I did make one resolution I’d like to keep — to stay away from news and opinions of any kind. (Except for my own opinions, of course.)

There’s another resolution I’m planning to keep for a month — to stay away from sugar and wheat. Neither one of those things is good for me, and both create problems, but both are hard to stay away from permanently — no pizza ever again? I don’t eat it very often, maybe a couple of times a year, but still, even the thought of it can be a treat. And no chocolate? Heaven forbid! But I’m trying to do a body reset, if there is such a thing, and so I’m being careful what I eat.

A third resolution I plan to keep when I can — to walk every day. But that’s not much of a resolution when I allow myself an out from the beginning. I’m to the age where I notice every joint, every muscle, every ligament and tendon, and there’s no telling when I get up in the morning which of those things will be out of whack. When you think about it, that so many people live for many years, especially when they are young, without being reminded of a single body part is the true miracle. To think that all those parts once worked painlessly together is truly astonishing! Adding to the “out” of walking every day is the weather. I have no interest in going out in dangerous weather. (Dangerous to old bones, that is.) But, I’ll do what I can for however many years I can.

A fourth resolution isn’t so much a new year’s resolution, but rather a hope since I can’t do anything until spring. I would like to get my head more into gardening and lawn work than I did last year. Last year I went through the motions but didn’t really care. This year, I’d like to care, especially since a neighbor gave me a gardening record book, and I’d like to thank her by actually using it. Though admittedly, it will be mostly blank until March or even April.

And there’s a fifth resolution. Well, not actually a resolution, something that just happened. So far, I’ve blogged every day this year. Whoop-de-do! Two whole days! Sometimes I think I’d like to get back into blogging — I liked that it gave my days form and focus. Other times I wonder what the heck I’d been doing putting so much of myself out there for all the world to see. Did I really just spew out my grief, talk about my father and dysfunctional brother, show my new house and yard, let everyone peek into my private life? It was one thing to talk about author-y things back when I was writing, but the rest? Eek. Not smart! So far, the balance scale is . . . balanced. If I do, I do. If I don’t, I don’t. And either way is fine.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Water Wars

January 1, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Anyone who knows western movies and books, knows that in the west, gold might be king, but water is the ultimate power. Who owns the water, owns the world, which is what the land barons in the westerns knew, and why they tried to steal as much as they could.

Today, especially in overblown states such as Colorado, that still holds true. Because of the water war lessons from those westerns, one knows never to sell one’s water rights.

Um, no. Not true. I was shocked when I returned to Colorado after spending time in California taking care of my aged father, to find that so many ranchers in Southeastern Colorado had sold their water rights to front range cities so those large cities could continue to grow. It made sense to them — their children didn’t want their way of life, and so they took the money and . . .  well, I don’t know what they did with it. All I know is that there is a heck of a lot of land around here with no water rights. (Until recently, even the rain that fell on your property in Colorado didn’t belong to you — it belonged to the state and whoever held the rights to that water.)

And the front range cities continue to fight for water to enable them to grow.

Which brings me to today’s topic: The Arkansas Valley Conduit Project. I’m sure most of you had never heard of the project until the bill to finish the project was vetoed. You’d think with all the hoopla over the veto, that the project itself was cancelled, but it wasn’t. If Colorado can dig up the money, they can continue to dig the conduit, which is supposed to deliver filtered water to Southeastern Colorado. Despite what everyone seems to believe, the project itself wasn’t vetoed, merely the method of repayment of the loans.

The project was authorized by the Federal Government in 1962, but since the participants couldn’t make the construction cost repayment schedule, nothing was ever done, and so the project languished. In 2009, the repayment terms were reduced: instead of 100% of the cost to be repaid to the Federal Government, only 35% would need to be repaid, and participants had 50 years to repay the money.

In 2020, the project received an additional $28 million federal funds to finish designing and to begin building the project. The controversy today is that a new bill (H.R. 131, the Finish the Arkansas Valley Conduit Act) was introduced and passed by both the House and the Senate, which allowed for an additional 50 years to pay the loan, as well as a 50% reduction in the interest, and it’s that bill for the repayment schedule that was vetoed.

Nothing in that veto blocked the project. If the money can be found, the project can be finished. The only problem is, the total cost of the project is estimated as $1.4 billion dollars. (So far, $249 million has been spent.)

The conduit is to be 130 miles and to serve 50,000 people. So, do the math. $1.4 billion comes down to $11 million a mile, and a whopping $28,000 per each recipient of the water. Huh? Does that make sense? I know people need clean water, but in the past 70 plus years, many of the towns the water was supposed to serve have developed their own filtration systems, so it’s possible that the number of recipients would be even less. (But I don’t know since no one is talking about that since it doesn’t fit the narrative. The other thing no one is talking about is the final cost to the consumer. Water in Colorado is already expensive. Because of the cost of the conduit being picked up by the final users, it’s possible no one will be able to afford the water, if in fact, there is any water.)

Meantime, in the 73 years since the pipeline was conceived, the population of Colorado has grown from 1,753,947 to 5,773,714, mostly in the cities. (In certain areas in Southeastern Colorado, the population has declined significantly.) Because of the continued growth, the water wars have heated up, with front range cities demanding more and more water. Practically every inch of water in Colorado is already allocated, so there’s no guarantee that if the conduit is ever built, there will be any water to run through the pipes to the outermost reaches of Colorado. (And that’s not even taking into consideration low snowpack years.)

I also can’t help but remember other Colorado boondoggles. The Denver International Airport and all the cheating that went on back then (people who were behind the project bought up the land from unsuspecting owners for a pittance and sold it to the developers for a fortune) as well as all the problems building it, such as cost overruns and a ridiculously expensive baggage system that never was able to be fixed. Then there was the whole Silverado Savings and Loan fiasco. And now there’s the push to make Colorado 100% electric, when in fact the system is so overworked and so old, that in a recent windstorm, power had to be shut off to 100,000 people due to fire risk. Some people were out of power for days. It seems to me that this conduit follows in those same unsavory footstep.

This is not a very cheerful first-day-of the-new-year post, but I needed to get all this out of my head so that I can prepare myself for following through with my resolution of staying away from news and politics and all other issues that irritate me. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I keep the resolution — it certainly would do wonders for my peace of mind, especially since I can’t do anything about anything.

Wishing you a happy, healthy, and peaceful new year, and the strength to follow through on any resolutions you might have.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Wishing You A Day Filled With Light And Lightness Of Being

December 21, 2025 — Pat Bertram

For the past six months, ever since the summer solstice, darkness has been creeping into our days here in the northern hemisphere and stealing our light. Today, the shortest day of the year, we have reached the end of the creeping darkness. Tomorrow the light begins to gradually to make its way back into our lives.

This year, I haven’t been quite as aware of the creeping darkness as usual since I’ve been trying to stay in bed until the first fingers of dawn lighten my windows. Well, that’s usually what I do, though in the summer, that has me rising at the horrendously early hour of 4:30 or 5:00. Not my choice — apparently, my body has its own mind, though admittedly, that habit of early rising makes staying in bed in winter until dawn a bit difficult. Such an onerous job, but I persevere!

The problem comes at 4:30 in the afternoon when it gets dark around here, but if I don’t pay attention to the clock, and simply turn on the light as I always do when it gets dark, it’s easy to pretend the days aren’t as short as they are. Of course, then, the evenings tend to stretch out, but that’s okay, too. More time to read! Besides, we have had an inordinately warm and sunny fall. (We seldom think of December as a fall month, but it’s way more fall than winter since this year winter didn’t begin until this morning at 8:03 Mountain Standard Time.) The sunshine helps brighten the short days. (I’m trying to ignore the distressing part of such a long autumn — my lingering seasonal fall allergies, but oh, well. There’s always a drawback.)

Still, today is the end of the creeping darkness and a day to celebrate the growing of the light.

Wishing you a day filled with light and lightness of being.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Days Slipping By

November 12, 2025 — Pat Bertram

The days slipped away without my paying attention, until suddenly, it’s not midsummer anymore, with its intensive heat and bright sunlight, but is now mid-November with its cool days, cold nights, and creeping darkness.

Even worse, I’m not snug in my insulated life, with no real knowledge of the world around me, but have been slammed into the middle of a lot of confusing issues.

It all started with Charlie Kirk’s assassination. Because of my mostly sequestered life (and even, admittedly, because of my age), I didn’t know who he was, so I started watching snippets of his talks. Which led me to more snippets of controversy. Which led to more snippets of life and how scary it is out there. No, not “out there” beyond Earth. Just “out there” beyond my own horizons.

Which has left me absolutely lost and confused and so very ready to go back to my cloistered life.

For example, there is a lot of talk about microplastics and how dangerous they are both to us individually and to the environment. The underlying message seems to be one of blame to us consumers, which is nuts. At least in my case, it is. Whenever there was a choice, I always bought products in glass jars or bottles. Not only did the food taste better since there was no leaching of plastic flavors or plastic particles, but the containers served as food storage containers, which cut down the use of even more plastics. But now almost everything comes in plastic. Whose fault is it that there are no glass containers anymore? Not mine, certainly, and yet there is that undercurrent of finger pointing. Well, point that finger elsewhere.

Then there are crises in energy, as well as crises in water management, with again, the undercurrent of blame on the consumer. If that were all, it would be understandable, but here’s the deal — one generative artificial intelligence data center uses as much electricity as a small city and millions (no, billions!) of gallons of water.

Climate change. Yep. That’s our problem, right? Yours and mine? We have to be economical and conserve water and power, even to the point at times of dealing with rolling brownouts and unpalatable water in our faucets. But oh, yes, those people foisting generative artificial intelligence on us (in many cases, the very people who are screaming about climate change) can do whatever they want, including building their data centers in fragile ecosystems like water-deprived deserts. (Although “water-deprived deserts” is redundant, because what makes a desert is water deprivation, I used the phrase to emphasize the stupidity of it all.)

And oh, yes. Artificial intelligence. For decades, we’ve been told that AI will remove the back-breaking and demeaning jobs leaving us time for creativity. You know, like writing, composing, and art-making. Yeah, right. Generative AI is making inroads into all those creative endeavors. In fact, using Gen AI you can write a book in just a few minutes! Yay! Well, not yay. I’m being sarcastic. The whole point of writing is to write what you need to write as a unique human being. The whole point of reading is to connect to the human experience via that author’s unique perspective. In no way does “artificial” enter into the process. (To be honest, going by a lot of new books on the market, there’s not a whole lot of intelligence entering into the process either.)

I’m sure there are other areas of confusion. Actually, I know there are, but I don’t want to go into the gaslighting that seems to hold true in today’s politics. Nor do I want to get into the whole indoctrination thing and the conformity of thought that seems so prevalent. (When people mention Orwell’s 1984, they always talk about “big brother” but more important are his ministries: the Ministry of Peace propagates war, the Ministry of Truth spreads lies, the Ministry of Love dispenses fear, and the Ministry of Plenty creates scarcity. Seem familiar to the shenanigans going on today?)

Of course, I could be wrong about all this. Maybe it’s only the contrast with my quasi-hermitage that makes the world and its inhabitants seem so insane. With any luck, by writing this, I have excised these dichotomous thoughts from my head, and can go back to my normal, so very quiet and unconfusing life where the days slip by unnoticed.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Happy Bloggiversary!

September 24, 2025 — Pat Bertram

Today is the eighteenth anniversary of this blog. Considering how little I’ve posted during the past couple of years, perhaps I should rephrase that and say that I started this blog eighteen years ago. The two sentences mean basically the same thing, yet the first seems to indicate an ongoing proposition, while the second acknowledges the truth of my inactivity.

Over the years, I’ve used this blog as a place to dump all the thoughts and feelings that didn’t otherwise leave me alone, and luckily, nowadays I’m seldom haunted or taunted by those tenacious circular thoughts (thought loops that continue to swirl ever tighter as one’s mind tries to cope with stress and negativity).

I can’t take credit for the lessening of those thought loops since I’ve never really learned to turn them off; it’s more that I’ve landed in a situation where I can control what goes on in my life. Mostly, of course, that situation lets me spend my time alone, away from anyone or anything that causes me unnecessary distress. And I have pleasant means of occupying my mind — there’s always reading (and I do mean always — it’s no secret why the library staff knows me well) and gardening, of course.

I started the gardening season with a sense of detachment — it seemed foolish, in a way, to care so much for something about which I have little control. No matter what I do, plants die, the sun sears, winds desiccate, unsightly weeds flourish. And yet, despite my sense of detachment, I did what I could, and this fall, I’m reaping the benefits of a beautiful yard.

I have learned, over the years of living here in this sometimes harsh and unpredictable climate, that the promise of spring dies in the heat of summer, so I’ve been spending more attention to fall plants. By autumn, the winds have lessened, the sun has moderated its intensity, pulled weeds stay gone, and flowers flourish.

And I find my mind calm, with seldom anything to write about. Except, of course, to mention that there isn’t anything to blog about on this eighteenth anniversary. I could, of course, talk about all the changes that have gone on during those eighteen years, both in my life and in the world, but thinking of all that tumult would put me back where I don’t want to be.

Still, I survived those years, and through it all, this blog was there for me. And for you.

Happy bloggiversary to us!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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We Know Everything

September 15, 2025 — Pat Bertram

We all think we know everything because we know everything we know. The corollary to that statement, of course, is that we don’t know what we don’t know, and often we don’t even know we don’t know what we don’t know.

Whew! That’s a convoluted thought! But I come by it honestly. Honestly, I do.

I happened to fall down a dark hole of baby boomer hatred, not in real life, but on the internet. It astonished me that so many people hate “boomers,” even though their reasons don’t apply to any boomer I know. I was going to enumerate each of those reasons with a rebuttal, but decided that was a waste of my time and yours. No one can know a generation. Despite the names so arbitrarily given to the alleged generations, generations are made up of individuals, not generic beings. In fact, I have a hunch most of those who dislike certain older generations have no idea what years truly comprised those generations; the epithet “boomer” seems to be a derogatory term used to describe a mindset that younger people ascribe to any older person who doesn’t see life the way they do. (Generation gap, anyone?)

Much of what is attributed to “boomers” is really a leftover from the so-called greatest generation. When the boomers came of age, that generation was still in control. It wasn’t the boomers who destroyed the economy, but those older folks. (And it wasn’t even them. They just lived their lives. It was the politicians and global corporations who did and are still doing the damage.) The boomers got caught in a vise — although they were raised in a time of unprecedented economic stability, by the time they were raising families themselves, everything had changed. It was no longer economically feasible for a single salary to support a family. Two-incomes were suddenly necessary. And despite what people believe about the boomer economic well-being, millennials have a higher net worth than baby boomers at the same age. Although the millennials bought their first house later than boomers, and paid more, finances weren’t always the reason for the delay — many prioritized other life experiences over owning a home and starting a family.

Also, I was surprised to find that boomers are no longer the largest generation; millennials are. And the alpha generation is forecast to be the largest generation in history.

But all of that is beside the point, which is that we don’t know what we don’t know. What some people don’t like about boomers is that they aren’t grateful for the unprecedented economic and educational time they lived in, but how can they be grateful for something they didn’t know was something to be grateful for, especially since each of them was struggling in their own way? As I said, generations are made up of individuals, and each individual, no matter what generation they belong to (or don’t belong to: the generations, after all, are just marketing designations) lives their life as best as they can under the conditions they are given.

I have a hunch that, since “generation” isn’t really an intrinsic thing (we aren’t born with the name of our generation tattooed on our foreheads), most people who dislike a particular generation simply dislike certain people they have met from that generation (and if the disliked generations are older, those people are most often parents, grandparents, teachers, and other authority figures.)

But whatever the reason, “boomer” hatred does seem to be a thing. Luckily, I don’t know any generations, only people. I have never blamed younger people for the hardships they find themselves dealing with. And I don’t blame older people for the hardships they find themselves dealing with. All any of us can do is deal with is what we know, not what we don’t know.

Still, I am utterly grateful to be on the downward slope of my life. I wouldn’t want to live in the world that is shaping up around the younger generations.

(Just out of curiosity, since I’ve been thinking about all of this: has any other generation had to deal with so much change as the boomers? Especially technological change. To young boomers, television was a brand-new thing. Phones were wired into the wall. Vinyl records and radio were the sole sources for listening to music. Only girls learned typing — on manual typewriters, no less. And yet look at those people today: most are proficient on their various electronics. Those still working are as proficient as anyone.)

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Cosmic Thoughts

July 20, 2025 — Pat Bertram

I just finished reading a science fiction novel about an alien civilization that set out to destroy the earth, and there was no way for us to stop it. Instead, there was a Noah’s ark scenario, where certain people, plants, animals, and a sampling of cultural items such as books were sent out into space. In itself, it wasn’t that great a story, but it did make me wonder what is here on earth that would truly be important to save if the planet were to be blown up. If there are other livable planets, they would have their own plants and animals that grew out of their own ecosystem. And if the planets were inhabited with sentient creatures, those beings would have their own culture and language, and anything from Earth would be merely a curiosity.

I can see where Earth’s trappings would be important to displaced earthlings, but is there anything here that is valuable or necessary on a cosmic level? If the planet and all its inhabitants were to be blown up by some earth-shattering (literally, earth-shattering) event, would the universe be diminished?

I can think of many things that are valuable to the earth and especially to those that abide on its surface, but I can’t think of any physical thing that’s necessary on a cosmic level. Personally, of course, I value many things. Reading, occasionally visiting with friends, working on my yard. None of these things would survive my demise (let alone the demise of the earth), probably not even my yard since it takes too much work, and people nowadays don’t seem to value that sort of outside experience.

Still, working in the yard has been a good experience for me. And for some reason, this year the yard seems to respond. From certain angles, it looks like a lovely mini park.

From other angles, it looks like a jungle.

I planted a few vegetables in my raised garden (one pumpkin, one watermelon, one zucchini, two tomatoes) and those plants are lush!

The zucchini was supposed to be the normal dark green garden squash, but somehow I ended up with an heirloom zucchini — a costata. A special treat, for sure.

This is also lily time.

I’ve had quite a sampling of blooms despite so many of the plants freezing in the early spring.

The lilies always come as a surprise.

I had no idea such perfection was available to the casual gardener.

Although not actually lilies, I’ve also had day lilies growing.

All this growth and color helps to mask the plants that didn’t come back this year. Also a touch of detachment helps to accept that so much of gardening is beyond my control.

Although taking care of my yard isn’t necessary on a cosmic level, and certainly wouldn’t survive a cataclysmic event, it’s something special on a personal level, and that’s all to the good.

Wishing you well.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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