Heather be thy name

Heather Cox Richardson.

For millions of us, that name sounds like a call to prayer – and I’m not trying to be blasphemous – not at all. I simply mean that her name feels like a supplication for guidance to those of us who read her social media posts every morning. And give me a break – this January has made the average shitshow look like Oklahoma and I need to write about something remotely fun. Besides, who doesn’t love a cool woman known by all three names. I see you Sarah Jessica Parker.

I’ll confess, I may not floss everyday – don’t tell my dental hygienist – but I read Heather Cox Richardson like it’s my job. Yes, I do Wordle first to jumpstart my brain, then proceed immediately to Facebook (yes, I’m old) to see Richardson’s post. You can also find her on Substack where she emerged as one of the breakout stars of that platform in 2020. She publishes her newsletter Letters from an American daily and she provides a straightforward explanation of the events of the previous day. No grandstanding or hyperbole – just the facts and scholarly analysis, often providing in depth historical context for the day’s chaos. Richardson is all business, but sometimes she uses the word bonkers which delights me.

She’s a bit like a decaf Rachel Maddow without The L Word wardrobe and fashionable eyewear. Simmer down – I love Rachel, too, but watching her percolate in real time can make me even more jittery about current events, and when I read Richardson’s posts or hear her speak, I can almost feel my blood pressure dropping. There’s something quite comforting about her calm, measured delivery and her L.L. Bean fleece – you feel like you’re sitting down to coffee with her.

Richardson, for those who have been living in a FOX hole, is a Harvard educated historian who works as a professor at Boston College. She has authored several books, hosts a podcast, and makes speaking appearances all over the country. She’s like the smartest girl in your hardest class, but she’s so easygoing and accessible, you feel comfortable asking to borrow her notes.

Her presence has never been more critical since Trump’s reelection in 2024 and his all-out assault on democracy. Her posts are never political fast food – she is thoughtful and thorough in her analysis of events. Boy, is she thorough. I know I’ve learned more about the rise of fascism after World War I from her than I ever did in any history class – and I almost always feel a bit smarter after I’ve spent some time with her.

I just worry about her – and I know I’m not alone. Many of us wonder when/if she ever sleeps. She usually posts late at night – way past my bedtime. And during the day, she pops onto social media for live chats about the crisis du jour. Richardson lives in Maine with her lobsterman husband Buddy and sometimes when it has been a particularly horrendous day in the USA, she’ll simply post a photo Buddy has taken somewhere along the beautiful Maine coast. She gets us.

**Sometimes you just need a dose of Maine. Photo credit: Buddy Poland**

I love Maine and I rented a little cottage on the water’s edge there for two weeks last summer. It was something right out of Cabot Cove – just without the murders. The owners of the cottage live nearby, and we had some brief conversation as I would come and go. On my last evening there, Dorothy, one of the owners, texted me to see if she could pop over to tell me a proper goodbye. I was delighted to spend a little time with her in “our” cottage and learn a bit more about her. Our conversation quickly turned to politics and how much we both want to get rid of Sen. Susan “I’m concerned” Collins. Spoiler alert: Her lobster is cooked.

Dorothy and I talked about the state of things and discovered that our fall of democracy survival kits were similar – NPR and the NY Times app to name a few. Then she asked me if I followed Heather Cox Richardson. “Of course,” I replied. Dorothy smiled and said, “Well, you know, she lives down the road about 10 miles.” WHAT????? My reaction was not unlike a group of 12-year-old girls hearing that KPop Demon Hunters were in the house next door.

**Me when I heard I was within stalking distance of Heather Cox Richardson**

I tried to remain nonchalant, but Dorothy could clearly see that I was a hardcore HCR fangirl. She laughed and said that they were friends and that she was as down to earth as could be. This made me happy and I was grateful I did not know Richardson was a neighbor until my last night in Maine. I know myself too well. I would have spent way too much time hanging around the local market – just in case. Nonetheless, I slept a little better that night knowing that Heather Cox Richardson was right down the road preparing her post for the next day.

But if I return to my little cottage this summer – all bets are off. Heather Cox Richardson – you’ve been warned.

Thank you for your service

Last week was rather Dickensian for me. It began by seeing a group of Buddhist monks pass through my city on their Walk for Peace. Hundreds and hundreds of people lined their path in reverence and were lifted by the wake of hope they left behind. It was the best of times – and I did not want that glorious day to end.

And my week ended watching and rewatching videos of an American citizen being shot dead by a gang of ICE agents – one of whom applauded after the victim lay dead on the street in front of a bakery in Minneapolis. It was the worst of times – and it feels as if these horrific days will never end.

You all know by now that Alex Pretti, the man executed by ICE agents on Saturday morning, was an ICU nurse at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Minneapolis. Jesus, irony can sometimes be as bitter cold as a Minnesota winter. Alex Pretti was a helper – by all accounts a kind man who held a deep respect for the veterans he served. In the aftermath of his death, the son of a deceased veteran who Pretti had cared for posted a video of Pretti giving his father a final salute in a hospital corridor as he somberly read aloud from text that began with these lines:

“Today, we remember that freedom is not free. We have to work at it, nurture it, protect it and even sacrifice for it.”

Like any reasonable American, I was appalled that Pretti was killed exercising his First Amendment freedoms, and his connection to veterans made my heart ache even more. The grandfather I was named for was a veteran of both world wars and my father served in the Army. And I worked as a development officer for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) for eight years. I was responsible for cultivating planned gifts – bequests, trusts and annuities – and would always visit the local Veteran’s hospital whenever I was meeting with donors. These hospitals are deeply attuned to the veteran experience, and you certainly feel a sense of respect for service and love of country when you spend time in one – especially when you see some of the collateral damage left behind by combat.

And I think that’s why I mourned Pretti’s senseless and unnecessary death even more deeply when I learned he cared for veterans. And I’m certain that is why I was utterly consumed with rage when Kristi “ICE Barbie” Noem and other federal agents immediately tried to defame Pretti’s reputation and described him as a domestic terrorist who had taken to the streets to sow carnage. We’ve all seen the videos – deep gratitude to Pink Coat Lady who risked her own safety to record the definitive angle of the murder on her own deadly weapon – an iPhone. Hey Siri – Please save us.

**NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER – poem by Andrea Gibson**

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” is a well-known 1970’s spoken-word/song by Gil Scott-Heron that condemns passive consumerism and argues that real change only happens in the streets – and not by watching TV. I guess the song could be updated to include doom scrolling. As it turns out, the revolution will be live-streamed, and that is what is saving us, and democracy, these days.

Alex Pretti knew this and he was an active participant in what Rachel Maddow eloquently describes as “principled, peaceful, and relentless protest.” And he paid the ultimate price – his one, precious life. And cue the irony again – yesterday, the Trump administration – reacting to the massive public outrage over Pretti’s killing, booted Gregory Bovino – the Nazi Munchkin in charge of immigration operations in Minnesota – and signaled that the number of federal agents in Minneapolis would be reduced. And just this morning, we learned that the chief federal judge in Minnesota has ordered the head of ICE to appear in court on Friday for a hearing on contempt for violating court orders.

**Pretty sure Mary Richards would have been protesting. Rhoda, too.**

Enough? Not even close, but it’s a start and none of it would not have happened without the good and brave people of Minnesota taking their ire over how their neighbors are being treated to the streets – in sub-zero temps mind you. Operation Metro Surge – the ICE mission in Minneapolis – was doomed from the start. For starters, don’t invade a city full of descendants of Vikings in the dead of winter.

I just know that a modest group of Buddhist monks in plain robes and throngs of Minnesotans in puffer coats have given me tangible hope that better days are ahead. But as Alex Pretti knew all too well – we have to work at it.

**Alex Jeffrey Pretti, ICU nurse and patriot, 1989-2026**

**Alex Pretti’s colleagues offered a moment of silence yesterday in a hallway of the VA hospital where he served.**

One nation under carbs

Last week was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. If a root canal and the Norovirus got together and produced an offspring – it would look like last week. I can make some tepid jokes about it now, but there was nothing funny about last week – it was the worst many of us had felt since the wee early hours of November 9, 2016.

While we were still reeling from the coverage of immigrant children being separated from their parents and held in cages, came the staggeringly sober news that Justice Anthony Kennedy was resigning from the Supreme Court. When I got the BREAKING NEWS alert on my phone I prayed it really was FAKE NEWS.

It felt like the time years ago when I hit the wrong button on my first iPhone and accidentally did a factory reset – losing all my never backed up photos and contacts. That slow motion feeling of not being in control mixed with deep sadness for what might be permanently erased.

I don’t care if we knew it “might” be coming. I’m a proud reality denier and I had put that particular item far down on my To Worry About List. Once I caught my breath, I cried. I did. It was just too much to process after EVERYTHING else. Fortunately, I was at home by myself, so my cat was the only eyewitness to my breakdown and her silence can be bought with a few extra treats.

I’ve spent much of my adult life working for LGBT civil rights – including devoting a sizable chunk of my professional life to advocating for people living with AIDS. I suddenly saw the past 25 years or so like a montage – all the meetings, all the marches, all the fundraising, all the stinging defeats, all the friends – some dead now – all the years of incremental progress – then the rush of huge advancements. I could feel it all slipping through my hands like sand. I felt hopeless.

My guy, Jeff. I guess you could say he wears his heart on his T-shirt.

And then my phone started blowing up. First one in was my gay boyfriend, Jeff. We’ve said for years that we would be the perfect couple except for the little detail of sexual orientation. He’s the gay man version of me – cranky with a wicked sense of humor. I adore him, and we have shared many hours stuffing envelopes, canvassing neighborhoods, hosting fundraisers and kvetching about the current state of affairs. Side note: We narrowly avoided a tragic accident years ago while delivering a Porta Potty to a special event. It almost tipped over in Jeff’s truck while we were placing it in a friend’s backyard. If the Porta Potty hadn’t crushed us to death, we would have most certainly died from humiliation.

Jeff basically expressed the same things I was feeling – that everything we had worked so long and hard for could be eradicated as the balance of the Court shifted. And then he texted a few minutes later to say he had gone to the men’s room to throw up. The thought of losing some of your civil rights can make you toss your lunch. My crying didn’t seem so bad then. Jeff always makes me feel better.

Then I got a Facebook message from my friend, Bo, in Wilmington. We served on the

: Bo is rather shy and retiring. Said no one ever.

board of Equality NC for several years and have stayed in touch. He wrote, “I share your fear and I want to walk with you in our next right thing. You taught me that all is not lost. We have to keep teaching each other.” Damn. I was crying again – only this time the tears were sweeter.

And then I got a phone call – old school – from my mentor/Jewish mother/friend/sage, Phyllis, in DC. I worked for her years ago and we became family. She and her husband hosted my wedding to my dear wife in 2014. Phyllis is fearless and is always the first to call – in good times and in tough times. When I answered the phone, I said, “Please tell me we are moving to Norway.” She said, “Addy, I feel like someone in my family has died.” Just hearing her voice made me feel safer.

Phyllis always calls. Always.

I turned off the TV. I couldn’t bear to hear the talking heads start to circle the body like vultures, speculating on who Trump would select. I’ve barely watched any news since then. Thank God for BBC crime dramas – I find them oddly comforting. Nothing like a good grisly murder or two set against a gray London backdrop to lift your spirits.

My wife and I had dinner plans that evening with a friend from our church. She’s a delightful and smart retired woman who has hosted us for supper in her home a few times. I’m a vegetarian and she’s kind enough to even prepare some fabulous tofu dishes for us – nobody ever does that. We usually bring a bottle of wine – that night we brought two. Just in case.

We had a surprisingly lovely evening sitting around her dining room table as the sun went down. I love that time of day and the light cast a peaceful balm over us as we talked. We came home feeling a bit better.

Breaking bread with a kindred spirit was just what we needed.

I had one more Facebook message waiting for me – from my good friend Megan. We worked together for years around HIV/AIDS issues and she and her husband are two people who always seem to be on the right – as in fair and just – side of everything. She oozes integrity and her support has always meant a great deal to me. She wrote, “Holding you and many others in my heart… don’t lose hope.” I felt like I had a logjam of life rafts available when I finally fell into bed that night.

: This is a typical Facebook post from Megan. All the feels.

But do you want to know what lifted my spirits the most amidst the angst of last week? I could give you a gazillion guesses, and you wouldn’t come close. Ready? A chocolate éclair. And, no, I wasn’t self-medicating. It wasn’t even my éclair. On Friday, I met my bestie, Carla, at a local coffee shop. Carla is in grad school and we’ve been taking advantage of her summer off by meeting every other Friday for a three-hour coffee date. Seriously. We always meet at 9 AM and we’re never done before noon. That’s a lot of coffee and conversation.

Coffee with Carla. The best part of summer.

Our croissants and cappuccinos were long gone by the time a smiling young Asian man put down his paper plate on the table right next to us. We both started staring – lusting really – at the scrumptious looking chocolate éclair on his plate. Clearly, we were not as smooth about it as we thought we were because he looked at us sweetly and said, “Would you like a bite?” We both giggled with embarrassment and I think I fumbled a bit and said, “Oh, no, sorry, that éclair just looks so good.”

Carla got up to use the restroom and our new pal returned to his table with his coffee and settled in to enjoy his treat. He caught my eye as he held his plastic fork and knife in his hands and said, “Really, are you sure you wouldn’t like to try this?” Seriously, I really DID want to, but honestly, I could feel my throat closing with emotion. There was something so incredibly moving about his simple but genuine kindness in that moment. I wanted to hug him, but I was afraid he might think I was going to nab that big ass éclair.

The object of our affection.

Carla returned to our table and as we headed towards the door, I told him that we would not have been so generous with our éclairs and he laughed and told us to have a nice day. I could almost hear Won’t You Be My Neighbor playing in the background.

Let’s make the most of this beautiful day

Since we’re together, might as well say

Would you be my, could you be my

Won’t you be my neighbor?

I know it’s a gross simplification to imply that good pastries make good neighbors. I just know that a random exchange with a perfect stranger in my local coffee shop made me feel like somehow, we will make it through to the other side of this darkness. Together.

When I got home I reread the last part of Megan’s message:

“You just need to know you’re not alone in this. I come from a perspective, forged from coming of age in the 70’s, that we’re smart enough and tough enough to outmaneuver the bastards if we just work together.”

Mr. Rogers couldn’t have said it any better himself.

Can you say outmaneuver the bastards?

Carbs will keep us together.

This tweet saved me last Wednesday. Long live Ruth!

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Mr. Rogers

Heather be thy name

Thank you for your service

One nation under carbs