My motto as an editor: Authors are the authority on their work. I'm a full-service editor. For a reasonable fee, I'm your writing coach from the first suggested revision to the correction of the final typo.
Hurricane Milton decided to take a turn away from us. Although we got quite a bit of rain and have a few branches down, it's not as bad as post-Hurricane Helene. The electricity flickered off and came right back on a few times overnight.
We got off so easy!
Lake Junebug doesn't have enough water for me to bother with opening The Lake Junebug Resort & Rumpus Room. Sorry, everyone. You'll have make your reservations for next summer.
I feel for the people in Tampa, Sarasota, and other locations where the water is deep and they have a lot of damage.
I stayed up until 4 a.m. keeping an eye on things. Keep this top secret, confidential information to yourself: I took a new job with the Biden administration. I'm the one who hooked the weather control device to the giant faucet. I hope I can continue my work when we elect Vice President Harris.
Uncle Milty, as my great good friend Lorraine at Rocking Retirement called the latest and greatest hurricane, arrived in Florida as a Category 3 storm, then settled down happily into Category 2. According to CNN, more than 1.6 million people in the state have lost power. Wind gusts of 100 mph were recorded near Tampa. The center is 75 miles southwest of Orlando. DisneyWorld closed this afternoon. Multiple tornadoes hit other parts of the state today.
In my part of Jacksonville, we had light rain on and off most of the day. Heavy rain started at about 5:30 p.m. The wind picked up a while after that. It's now 11:54 p.m. EDT, October 9.
We are fine. Lake Junebug is very wet but the sparkling waters haven't accumulated sufficiently for me to even consider the possibility of opening The Lake Junebug Resort & Rumpus Room. I'll probably be telling a different story by morning.
About 7:30 p.m. the power flipped off and right back on three times.
We filled the bathtub with water. We have water in pitchers and some of my beloved Tupperware bowls. We have plenty of non-perishable food, just in case it gets worse, and it probably will.
Rebekah and I also took showers so when rescue workers find our bodies, at least our bloated corpses will be clean. (I'm kidding!)
Someone who evacuated from another area last night posted on Facebook that the interstate was packed and it took seven hours to travel 200 miles. Plenty of people in evacuation zones don't leave because it's so difficult. And what about people who have no transportation? What are they supposed to do? The governor said the state will have a "robust response" to storm damage, but the issue to work on next is how to get people out of evacuation zones smoothly and safely. At least Ron admitted to receiving assistance from President Biden. DeSantis is such a trump kiss ass that he's been refusing to take calls from the president and from Vice President Harris since Hurricane Helene. Who the hell does he think he is?
Anyway, the word from the Dept. of Emergency Management this afternoon was if you haven't left, then it's too late. Shelter in place.
I don't know if I'll get much sleep tonight. If the electricity goes off and comes back on multiple times during the night as it did during Helene, I wake up every time it goes off.
Just to reiterate, I am not in an evacuation zone and never have been. If we were not able to stay in the Little House On The Swamp for some reason, I would find the nearest Hilton still standing and head there with Rebekah and the dogs––Maureen, too, if she needed to leave.
Speaking of dogs, Princess is asleep on the couch next to me. Penelope is hiding in the bedroom closet. Fritz The Wonder Dog is in bed with Rebekah.
It's now Oct. 10 so I'll say good night. If you don't hear from me later, it will be because the internet is out, but that would be very unusual.
Thank you all so much for your concern and kindness.
Here we are, waiting for Hurricane Milton to arrive, although we have a second big pile of debris from Hurricane Helene at the curb still waiting for a big truck to come to whisk it away. Wouldn't you know we'd get the yard cleaned up only to have another storm move in?
My messy yard stuff is nothing compared to the suffering so many other people have experienced because of Helene.
We expect a lot more rain this time, along with the wind. *big sigh* The Little Pump That Could is back in the yard (I had just put it away in the garage), and we have plenty of hurricane appropriate snacks and drinks.
This morning I'm going to head to the pharmacy for my flu shot and the latest COVID vaccine.
I had my yearly physical last week. My blood pressure was low, low, low.
A few weeks ago I had a medical colonoscopy/endoscopy, as opposed to a screening colonoscopy. The doctor said afterward that I don't have cancer and I do have acid reflux, so I have yet another pill added to the handful I take each morning. I need to go in to see his assistant to find out what else is wrong with me, other than I'm full of shit.
I'll do my best to report on Milton. We still miss Franklin, the Weather Watch Dog. When Franklin went out and came back with wet fur, it was raining. When Franklin panted, it was hot. When Franklin decamped for my bedroom closet, it was thundering.
I hope you'll stick around for the Another Junebug Production video below, starring Fritz The Wonder Dog.
Helene made herself quite the unwelcome guest last night, but we made it through the storm more easily than a lot of people.
I had the Little Pump That Could ready for floodwaters in the backyard, but it didn't rain much. The problem was the wind. Tree limbs crashed down all night.
Here's Penelope checking out the yard this morning.
More than 100,000 people in Jacksonville are without power. We are not among them. I'm not sure what time it was that the power flipped off and on multiple times, but eventually, it stayed on.
At one point, a Roomba and a mopping robot decided to leave their charging stations to clean the house. Maybe they thought all the noise had dirtied the floors.
I'll have a lot of cleaning up to do in the front of the house, too, but the yard refuse truck came around first thing and picked up a big pile of debris I already had at the curb.
Helene blew in and broke the gate to the backyard. Rebekah and her husband, Franklin's beloved Uncle Eddie, effected a repair so the dogs can still go out.
If you were in the path of the storm, I hope you came out as well as we did. We didn't have any serious damage and no one was injured. We didn't get a lot of sleep, but we're fine.
Here's the calm after the storm:
If Helene came your way, please let me know how you are.
One of my favorite writers, F. Scott Fitzgerald, was born on this day in 1896.
I think he looks very sensitive and handsome in the above photo, although he does not seem to have been a very sensitive person in practice. He didn't have a lot of compassion for the people who loved him. If I recall correctly, his daughter, Frances Scott Fitzgerald [Scottie], didn't talk about him much but once told a friend that her father was a son-of-a bitch.
Would he have been as famous if it hadn't been for his personal life? I've enjoyed reading some biographies and a book with letters Scott and wife Zelda wrote to each other. He and Zelda were the embodiment of the Jazz Age––riding on the roof of a taxi, jumping in the fountain at The Plaza, getting kicked out of a hotel because of their wild behavior. Scott performed gymnastics in the lobby and Zelda slid down the bannister. The other guests tired of them and complained.
Lovely young Zelda
Scott mined Zelda's life, her words, and her writing for his own work. When Daisy recalls the birth of her daughter in The Great Gatsby, her words are almost an exact copy of what Scott quoted Zelda as saying after Scottie was born Oct. 26, 1921. Zelda resented the way Scott used her and wanted her own success.
The alcoholic son of an alcoholic, Fitzgerald struggled to find success after the 1920s. During the Great Depression, readers began to lose interest in his work, which so often incorporated wealthy characters. Flappers were no longer in fashion. He failed in an attempted career as a Hollywood screenwriter.
Zelda was diagnosed with schizophrenia in 1930. She spent years in and out of mental hospitals. When she was out, she usually lived with her mother and only saw Scott occasionally. Scott wrote short stories and desperately tried to sell them to pay for Zelda and Scottie's care; he seldom had time to work on novels. His drinking ruined his health. A number of people recalled his cruelty when he was drunk. By 1936, the royalties from his books amounted to $80. Scott sent Scottie to a fashionable boarding school. During her breaks, she lived with Scott's literary agent, Harold Ober, and his wife, Anne.
On December 21, 1940, Scott died from a heart attack at age 44. He believed he was a failure. His books were no longer carried in bookstores. On March 10, 1948, Zelda died in a fire at a mental hospital. She and some other women were in a locked ward and couldn't get out. Scottie became a journalist, a writer, a prominent Democrat, and married twice. Her first marriage produced four children. The children played with remnants of their grandparents' lives, dressing up in their old clothes kept in a trunk. Cancer killed her June 18, 1986, when she was 64.
My all-time favorite novel is The Great Gatsby, which is very highly regarded now but was not a success when it was published in 1925. It's beautifully written––lyrical and doesn't have a wasted word with a perfectly planned plot.
Scott Fitzgerald didn't like his own short stories for the most part and thought they were a necessary waste of his time. Many of them are classic stories that are much appreciated now. My favorite is considered "minor Fitzgerald," The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I love it for its whimsy. (I didn't like the movie of the same title that is only loosely based on Fitzgerald's story. The movie doesn't capture the nature of his writing.)
When we moved to Maryland, on our first full day there, I insisted on a trip to Saint Mary's Cemetery in Rockville. In that beautiful churchyard, I visited Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald's graves. They are side-by-side. Scottie is buried close to them.
Scott's gravestone bears the last sentence of The Great Gatsby, and oh, what a sentence it is.
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
Sources:
Some Sort of Epic Grandeur: The Life of F. Scott Fitzgerald by Matthew J. Bruccoli
Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald -- edited by Jackson R. Bryer and Cathy W. Barks
Thank you to my lovely friend Joanne at Cup On The Bus for posting the link to this excellent Robert Reich video that provides a cogent list of the worst things about trump's presidency––just in case someone is thinking about voting for him and can't remember how awful it was the first time around.
Reich actually gives us more than the 10 worst things during the former guy's term in office, but the list goes by quickly. If you think Reich missed anything, then please share it in your comment.
💙💙💙💙💙💙💙 VOTE BLUE 💙💙💙💙💙💙💙
When Auntie Rebekah arrived in our home, coffee drinking commenced. Auntie Rebekah stumbles from her bed each morning, bleary and bluggy, croaking out her need for coffee. And she is not fit to live with until she drinks that stuff.
I do not understand this need for coffee. Mom Mom drinks water, milk that has achieved a score of 2 percentage points, and Diet Pepsi. Mom Mom does not drink coffee, although she assures me it is ordinary for most adults in our country to want coffee in the morning. Still, I do not approve because another problem with the coffee has come up.
When Auntie Rebekah drinks coffee and eats her breakfast, we have to stay very close to her in case she chokes on something and needs me to perform the Hymen maneuver. Princess and Fritz must join me to clean up her spills. In the photo above, she has a covered cup, but she usually has an open cup of coffee and my little sister, Princess, might have accidentally stuck her tongue in the cup and now she has developed a taste for coffee.
Every time Auntie Rebekah walks away from her coffee, Princess takes a drink of it. I told her she must not do that! She is drinking the germs and bacteria Auntie Rebekah spits into the cup. Coffee will also stunt her growth, and caffeine will keep her awake at night. I do not think I can deal with a sister who has chronic insomnia.
Thus far, Princess has not listened to me. She hasn't my years of experience that have led to my great wisdom and made me the paragon of virtue that I am.
Please help me explain to Princess that she must not drink coffee.
And please tell me this is not true:
I know it is not true that people who come to live in the U.S. eat pets. I am too smart to believe in such stupidity. I join Mom Mom in reminding you to vote for Kamala Harris.
I knew she was smart. I knew she was well educated. I knew she had been a prosecutor. I knew she would do her best to be prepared for the debate.
BUT I HAD NO IDEA SHE WOULD DO SUCH A THOROUGH JOB OF KICKING DONALD TRUMP'S ASS!
The sore loser had no idea what hit him, but of course, it's everyone else's fault––never his own.
The Mantel Gang is so happy.
They've been enjoying some post-debate memes they'd like to share with you, after they finish their meal of someone's pets.
And their favorite and mine:
We can't assume anything. The election hasn't been won. Don't think a good debate means she'll win. Trump will continue to lie incessantly and plenty of people will believe him no matter how crazy he is. Kamala does not have a lead. We have to give it to her.
Although it's not easy to watch, I recommend The Commandant's Shadow (2024, PG-13, produced and directed by Daniela Völker, streaming on HBO Max).
Last year's Academy Award winning The Zone of Interest introduced viewers to Auschwitz concentration camp commander Rudolf Hössand his family, who lived quite the pleasant life right next door to Höss's workplace, where he planned and carried out the "extermination" of at least a million Jews and other human beings judged to be less than by the Third Reich.
In this documentary, Höss's son, 87 year old Hans Jürgen Höss, recalls their life at Auschwitz as an idyll with their beloved father, whom he believed to have no real responsibility for the suffering and deaths at the camp, which he and his siblings believed at the time to be a prison that their father ran. He recalls that once a prisoner was shot along the wall of their home for trying to escape––nothing more happened to the people in the camp.
However, Höss undertakes a journey toward knowledge and responsibility with the filmmakers and his son, a pastor. The film also features Anita Lasker-Wallfisch, who survived Auschwitz because the camp orchestra needed a cellist. At age 99,Lasker-Wallfisch'smemories of the suffering remain vivid, yet she pushed them aside for the practicalities of life and testified at the trials of some of her Nazi oppressors. She is accompanied by her daughter, a psychoanalyst.
In other news, The Little Pump That Could almost had the remnants of Tropical Storm Debby out of our back yard when we had torrential downpours the last couple of days. Princess loves flying through the even deeper than usual waters of Lake Junebug, and the pump is hard at work.
Tonight is the debate. I'll be watching and rooting for Vice President Kamala Harris, who will have to bear up under the insults and idiocy of her opponent. I will
💙💙💙💙💙VOTE BLUE 💙💙💙💙💙
and encourage you to cast your vote in favor of democracy, the Constitution, and living in a decent world without a dictator on day one or any other day.
Hello. It is I, Penelope. I am ready to drop from exhuastion. I am afraid Dr. G. will say I should be hospitalized because of the stress and strain in my life this summer, on top of a life as the saddest, most abused little dog who ever lived.
Here I am at the end of a difficult day, unable to move from my bed.
I have always taken on most of the responsibility to keep our household running. When Mom Mom is sick or injured, I am the one who takes charge.
And now Auntie Rebekah is staying with us, so I have to take care of her, in addition to being in charge of the small creature she brought with her, Fritz. He is very needy and emotionally unstable. (Don't tell anyone I told you, but he takes medication prescribed by a psychiatrist; he needs a larger dose.)
Princess assists me in fulfilling my duty to Fritz. Auntie Rebekah had to go out for a while today––it was highly inappropriate, the woman has no business gallivanting around––and Fritz sometimes cries when she's gone. I convinced Fritz, with much cajoling, to sit on the couch with Princess, which assuaged his fears for a time.
I suspect I shall be responsible for Fritz for the rest of my pitiful little life.
Next week I have to take time off from my job with Fritz to see Dr. G. for my Annual Exam. You know, don't you, that I suffer terribly from arthuritis. Sometimes I limp because of it. I do not like it when Dr. G. manipulates my limbs to check how I'm doing. He also squirts nasty, wet stuff up my nose and he sticks needles in me. Needles, and needles, and needles. At least 20 to 30 needles of stuff that's called vaccinations. Oooooooh, the horror of vaccinations.
On top of taking care of Fritz almost non-stop, I have spent most of my summer dealing with Mom Mom's various illnesses. I make her appointments with doctors and watch over her when she is ill. She also becomes angry about her job sometimes. Today she was so upset that during her lunchtime break she played the piano loudly and cursed mightily when she got a note wrong. I do not care for that side of my Mom Mom's personality.
I also want to talk to you about the saddest thing that happened this summer. I do not understand it and I have not recovered from it. My big brother, Franklin, is gone. I do not know where he went. I thought perhaps he went to College For Dogs the way Princess did last year. Princess came back. Franklin has not returned.
Mom Mom cried and cried and told me my beloved brother died. I do not know what died means. I think he is never ever coming back. I cry, too, when I think about him and how much I miss him.
A very nice neighbor who no longer lives here said he liked seeing Franklin and me together because we looked as if we were wearing matching tuxedos.
I know I teased my big brother and called him the village idiot, but he was really very smart and so kind to me. We played chase around the big bush in the back yard until he couldn't walk very well anymore. I feel guilty for making fun of him. Please, can you tell me, will Franklin come back? Will I see him again? I am so worried about him.
I cry myself to sleep, missing Franklin.
Cette perte est tragique. Yes, I also continue to study the language of the great nation of France. If my responsibilities ever lessen, I still hope to visit that beautiful country.
I must sleep now. My work begins very early in the morning.
I had a helluva day today. I worked and I fucked up all sorts of things and I had to talk to some rude clients who yelled at me for no reason. I did not fuck up anything for the people who yelled at me but they yelled at me anyway. One of the shouters kept calling me dear and honey.
You're wrong about that, honey. You can't possibly have that right, dear. 23? You said 18 before, honey. You said 18 twice, dear. I know you did, dear. Why did you say 18 and now you say 23, honey? I want to talk to a supervisor, dear.
I got so fed up that I told him my name is not dear or honey and he should save it for his wife or girlfriend.
STOP TALKING AND GO AWAY!
Did I mention I had a bad day today?
Infinities of love to all of you but not to the man who yelled at me while calling me honey and dear.
LOOK AT ALL THE MAKEUP HE HAS ON! INCLUDING RACCOON EYE LINER!
In this early photo of J.D. Vance, in addition to learning he doesn't have a neck, we see the beginnings of a drag queen.
This is a man who wants to come out of the closet. Or maybe he was starting to transition.
We certainly know now why he grows a beard.
It's too bad he repressed his true self. He could have been a much nicer guy. Maybe he did it because a gay man wouldn't be accepted in his Appalachian hometown.
Except I've heard and read that he didn't really grow up in Appalachia. Does anyone know if that's true?
I'm falling in love with Tim Walz. I was already in love with Kamala.
but don't bother to call for a reservation. We can't accommodate you.You're disappointed, I know. The sparkling waters of Lake Junebug are especially beautiful after a visit from Debby. The daily afternoon thunderstorms are something to see and hear, and the chef's haute cuisine features some chicken salad from Costco that remains in the refrigerator. Perhaps I'll open
The Lake Junebug Resort & Rumpus Room
to you, the hoi polloi, next year.
For now, you can feel you're a part of the fun we have here by adopting a tadpole. For a contribution of $100 - $1,000, you can name some tadpoles and I'll post photos of them when they become healthy, happy frogs. We prefer cash handouts donations.
The private party staying with us for a while consists of Rebekah, Another Junebug Production video assistant, and her little dog, Fritz.
That's Rebekah, but not Fritz. Princess is giving her Auntie Rebekah some love.
Fritz is a chihuahua mix. I wish I had a video of my girls with him. When Fritz trots around the yard on his stubby legs, Princess and Penelope follow behind him as if they're a pair of nannies who are worried their charge might suffer an injury if they aren't watching his every move.
I'm sorry to say I am ill. I had to take a six-week leave of absence from work. I returned this week only to get sick again. I have an appointment with a specialist later this month, and the fun fun fun of a colonoscopy and perhaps some other tests will be mine to enjoy. I remain optimistic that all will be well.
It's raining and the wind is blowing. Thank you, Tropical Storm Debby. I thought I'd have my bloodwork done today, but I'm not going out in the storm. Besides, many places are closed.
Lake Junebug has a lot of water in it, so skinny dipping is pretty tempting.
I'm embracing the whole let's-call-certain-Republicans-weird thing because, after all, they are weird. Along with being silly, freakish, and just plain dumb.
Vance is weird for the childless cat lady crap along with so many other examples, but today we're focusing on don and his dopey Kamala Harris just turned black garbage.
I'm in love with this journalist. Too many reporters laugh and say, Well now, Mr. Trump, you're not answering the question when he does this shit.
I don't want to spend time today on don's racist history of refusing to pronounce the names of Black people correctly, but I must point out that I've learned we've been mispronouncing his first name. It's actually do-nads, which rhymes with gonads.
If you're in Debby's path, I hope she doesn't cause you too much trouble.
July 31st is a very important day because it's the day my beloved baby girl was born. I didn't know if I was having a boy or a girl. The ultrasound hadn't indicated the presence or the lack of a certain body part.
So when I gave that last mighty push and she popped out, I was thrilled to hear, IT'S A GIRL! quickly followed by, LOOK AT HER HAIR! (Yes, she had a lot of hair and it was long.)
I'd been hoping desperately for a girl. We already had our son and he was the one X cared about. He was X's child and I was just along for their ride. I wanted a girl because she would be my child.
And she was.
After she was cleaned up and wrapped in a blanket, the nurse handed her off to X, who looked as if he'd been handed a loaded gun and didn't know what to do with it. She was screaming enough to make her presence known. X turned her over to me and the second she was in my arms the screaming stopped and I was so in love with her.
The love has never ended.
She turned out to be a great kid: bright, beautiful, fun, talented in so many ways. I was very proud of her and probably bragged about her entirely too much.
When she was sad, I wanted so badly to make it all better.
I was never enough. I know I was a better parent than my mother was to me, but I was not enough. I made mistakes. I was mean and sarcastic at times. I yelled. There were things I should have bought for her that I didn't buy. I was definitely not enough, and for all the mistakes I made, all the wrongs I committed, I'm so sorry. I have apologized to my son, too. I was a better parent to my daughter than to my son. I never had enough patience.
She wanted her dad to care about her too, and I couldn't make that happen. I was riding on his roller coaster and it drove me to the edge.
But I loved them. Both of them. I still love them in spite of all the things that have gone wrong.
My daughter lives a world and a lifetime away. I'm proud of her success. I'm happy for her. I hope she's pleased with her success and happy with her life.
Happy Canada Day and Happy Fourth of July, although I hate you 4th of July with your damned, fucking fireworks.
The girls and I thank you for the kind, loving words you wrote to us following Franklin's death.
I don't think losing him really affected Princess. They behaved as if they were friendly acquaintances.
It's Penelope to whom Princess gave her heart, and it's a good thing she did because Penelope has needed her friend. She misses her big brother so much. For the first couple of weeks, Penelope spent quite a bit of time on the doggy bed that Franklin favored, but she tucked herself against a corner facing the wall. When she walked across the room where we all hang out, sometimes she broke into a plaintive cry that was painful to hear. She still cries. I'm sure Penelope hopes Franklin will come home to her the way Princess returned after her training. Penelope has perked up enough, though, that she plays with Princess a bit in the back yard and in the house.
Not much playing goes on at this time of the summer, however. We have reached the days of temperatures in the high 90s, but it "feels like" 100 something every afternoon, and we have a thunderstorm every afternoon or evening. It's too hot and humid to exert ourselves. It's Don't Move Weather, Not Unless You're Getting Some Ice Cream.
I don't feel well anyway. I still miss Franklin, too, and I have been ill. I won't provide info on the illness because it's definitely TMI kinda stuff.
The debate shocked the shit out of me because Joe Biden obviously was exhausted and not feeling well, and then the news shocked me even more when loads of assholes said he should drop out of the race! Why weren't they screaming that the felon shouldn't be allowed on a stage with POTUS? The so-called moderators were too weak to confront the criminal about the lies he told, but a lot of people were happy to go after the president because he had one bad night.
I saw something that made me feel a little better––that if Alfred can't take care of the bat cave for one night that doesn't mean you should turn it over to Joker. I think Jimmy Kimmel said that. It comforted me because it's true.
If any of you can make the fireworks go away, then please carry out your plans. You will have our thanks along with homemade cookies. .
If any of you can make donald trump go away, then . . . I guess I'll build an altar to you, a monument or something, and I'll bake a cake for you every week, whatever kind you want.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug, Princess, and Penelope
If you'll click on this link, I think it will make most of you smile. I've watched it over and over and it's cheered me up.
Last week I had a dream that Paul McCartney was my boyfriend.
It wasn't Paul as he is now, though I'd take him as he is now.
It wasn't Paul when he was a Beatle, though he was adorable then. They all were.
It wasn't Paul when he was this incredibly gorgeous with a baby inside his jacket. This Paul was young and in love with Linda and taking care of their children. I would never be involved with a version of Paul who would cheat on Linda.
It was this middling Paul, after Linda had passed. This Paul was an ardent and devoted boyfriend.
In fact, he wanted to kiss me all the time. Big, wet sloppy kisses.
After the dream drifted away and the day began, I realized this was my Paul, who must have been kissing me as I slept.
Sweet dreams, everyone. I wish you nothing but sweet dreams and slobbery kisses.
