Rest, Resistance, and Remembering Alex Pretti

      Photo taken from Pretti GoFundMe page

One day a week, usually Sunday, I take the day to rest. Part of that rest is staying away from social media. The other part is staying off the NuStep and allowing my body to recover. It is a small act of care, but one I have learned to protect.

This evening, though, I did a quick check-in on the news. There were a few developments that felt cautiously heartening. More and more members of Congress are saying they will vote for Secretary Noem’s impeachment. There is also pushback on giving ICE the additional funding they requested, funding that would need to pass by January 31st.

Today marked the first full day of Minnesota National Guard activation by Governor Walz. Reports indicate that Guard troops were telling protesters they were there to protect their right to protest, not suppress it. They were even handing out donuts and coffee. That matters. Presence matters. Tone matters.

There are also reports that the White House is unhappy with how the facts are emerging in the shooting death of Alex Pretti. As more witness statements and videos have surfaced, the picture has only become clearer and more horrifying. It appears to be exactly what the video shows, a murder. Why it happened, I still have not heard a credible explanation. And why the enforcers continued to shoot is something I cannot wrap my head around.

One of the most disturbing accounts I read came from a witness who is a pediatrician living nearby. He stated that he did not see Pretti attack federal agents or brandish a weapon. The witness ran outside, identified himself as a physician, and asked to assess Pretti’s condition. At first, agents refused, repeatedly demanding to see his medical license, which he did not have with him. None of the agents were performing CPR.

Eventually, one agent agreed to let the physician assess Pretti, after patting him down to make sure he was unarmed.

“I saw that the victim was lying on his side and was surrounded by several ICE agents. I was confused as to why the victim was on his side, because that is not standard practice when a victim has been shot,” the witness wrote. “Checking for a pulse and administering CPR is standard practice. Instead of doing either of those things, the ICE agents appeared to be counting his bullet wounds.”

The physician reported seeing at least three bullet wounds in Pretti’s back, another in his upper left chest, and a possible wound to his neck. He could not feel a pulse and began CPR until EMS arrived shortly afterward.

Source:
https://www.mprnews.org/story/2026/01/25/shooting-witness-accounts-legal-cases-challenging-federal-operation-minnesota

It is so incredibly sad. And so completely needless. The part I struggle with most is the number of shots fired after the first one, especially given reports that the first shot struck Pretti in the back and that he was already on the ground.

The Border Patrol agents involved in the shooting were removed from Minneapolis, but they have not been suspended. Instead, they were sent out of state to another site that has not been disclosed in media reports and they remain on active duty.

A GoFundMe account has been set up for the Pretti family, and it has already raised a significant amount because people know injustice when they see it and because grief should never have to come with a financial burden.

GoFundMe for the Pretti family:
https://www.gofundme.com/f/alex-pretti-is-an-american-hero

On a day meant for rest, I find myself still processing all of this at once. The small signs of resistance, the quiet decency of people protecting protest, and the unbearable weight of a life taken for no defensible reason. I step away when I can because I have to, but I check back in because I must. Rest, for me, is not forgetting what is happening. It is gathering the strength to keep naming it, mourning it, and refusing to accept it as normal.

When Filming the Government Gets You Killed

Image created using ChatGPT

I have spent the day trying to process the murder of Alex Pretti in Minneapolis by Border Patrol. What happened today isn’t something you just process. It’s something that hollows you out. Frankly, I’m not doing a very good job of processing it at all. Mostly I am angry, saddened, and disgusted.

Pretti was a 37-year-old ICU nurse and U.S. citizen, a man who dedicated his life to caring for others, and he was shot and killed by a Border Patrol agent as federal immigration enforcement operations swarmed Minneapolis.

I have watched every available video I can find. So far, there is no evidence supporting the government’s repeated contention that Pretti was “impeding ICE” or attacking agents. What is clear from the footage is this: he was recording what was happening, trying to help people around him, and then a group of agents tackled him, pepper-sprayed him, and ultimately shot him multiple times while he was on the ground.

The official story from DHS and Border Patrol leans heavily on the claim that Pretti had a gun and that agents feared for their lives. But video evidence and witness accounts show that he was filming, not threatening, when this all began, and that the weapon was only recovered after he was restrained.

I am angriest not just at what happened, but at the grotesquely asinine responses from people supporting it.

“Stay off the streets and let ICE do their job.”

What job is that?

Arresting legal immigrants with no criminal records?
Detaining people because of the color of their skin or because they have an accent?
Going door to door and interrogating neighbors about who might be “here illegally”?
Asking detained people for the names of their family members?
Withholding medical attention from pregnant women or people with serious health conditions?

This isn’t law enforcement. This is intimidation. This is terror. This is the kind of thing that makes normal people, people like a nurse who cared about his community, step in and document what is happening.

Thank God for the brave people filming these encounters. Without their phones and their courage, how many people would have been disappeared, including American citizens, with no record and no accountability?

There is no humane justification for what ICE and Border Patrol are doing in Minneapolis or anywhere else. The only purpose it serves is to prop up a wannabe dictator in the White House and a cabinet full of cronies with no integrity, no compassion, and no respect for human life. Not a single one of them has earned the benefit of the doubt.

I am so over this Nazi crap.
I am so over people pretending that violence against civilians is acceptable as long as it is done in the name of enforcement.
I am so over watching the government watch its own citizens be shot in the streets and call it something other than murder.

If this makes you uncomfortable, it should. Silence is part of how this keeps happening. Pay attention. Watch the videos. Support journalists and everyday people who are documenting what they see. Call your representatives and demand accountability. Refuse to normalize this.

Because once we accept that filming the government can get you killed, we are no longer pretending to be a free country.

NIght Off!

 A friend came by to visit earlier this evening and we ended up having a lovely long chat. Therefore I am foregoing writing tonight.

Breaking the Habit

Image created with ChatGPT

Today’s writing prompt is: “What bad habit have you managed to quit?”

I’ve probably written about this before, but the big one for me was quitting smoking. I quit on New Year’s Day, 1991.

At the time, I was smoking two packs a day of Salems, a menthol cigarette. They cost $2.50 a pack back then, with a new California tax about to kick in. I didn’t want to quit. I actually enjoyed smoking.

My dad had died of lung cancer in December of 1989. On his deathbed, he begged all the smokers in the family to quit. I don’t remember promising him that I would. The truth is, the only reason I quit was because my husband wanted to quit, and I did it to support him.

I went cold turkey, armed with cinnamon candy. Within a few weeks, the roof of my mouth started peeling from sucking on so much of it.

By early March, I felt awful all the time and went to the doctor. He told me he could help with the nicotine withdrawal by prescribing a medication. I remember looking at him and asking, “Why would I trade one addiction for another?” By the end of March, I started to feel better. It really was just a matter of time.

In late April, we attended a neighbor’s wedding. At the reception, I took one sip of a mimosa and became violently ill. I barely made it to the bathroom and was sicker than I had ever been up to that point. My first thought was, “Wow. Still in nicotine recovery.”

We eventually named our “nicotine recovery” Megan.

It turns out that once I quit smoking, I became fertile. During pregnancy, I never wanted a cigarette. I couldn’t stand the smell of hot dogs, let alone cigarette smoke.

After Megan was born in February of 1992, I never once craved nicotine again. I did, however, have dreams about smoking for nearly ten years afterward. I’d wake up feeling guilty, and it would take several minutes to realize I hadn’t actually smoked.

Old habits can linger in strange ways - even after they’re gone.

Have you ever quit a bad habit?

Treasured Toys and Risky Fun

Image created by ChatGPT

Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of toys, which was fine because we spent loads of time outdoors playing. When toys did come our way, they were treasured.

My favorite of all time was a Baby First Step doll. That doll came out in 1964, when I was eight years old, and I wanted her with all of my heart. I told every adult in my life about her, hoping that someone, anyone, in our large family had an inside scoop with Santa.

It worked.

Come Christmas morning, the very last gift under the tree to be opened was… BABY FIRST STEP.

During my high school years, “Baby” lived in my bedroom in a makeshift baby bed, a small top drawer of my dresser. Every morning, I opened the drawer and left it open throughout the day so she could see the light. Every night, I tucked her back into her bed. I didn’t really play with her so much as care for her. I thought she was the most beautiful doll ever made. I kept that doll until I got married at eighteen and left home.

Which brings me to some of the other toys we had over the years, also enjoyed, but probably considered far too dangerous to give to children today.

Lawn darts! I loved lawn darts. There was something seriously gratifying about throwing those plastic winged, metal tipped darts through the air and watching them land inside a round plastic circle. We played, adults and children alike, at friends’ houses, family picnics, and during visits to grandparents. The fact that none of us were ever injured makes me believe we had angels watching over us.

Metal toy pistols were also popular, along with long strips of caps that we loaded into the guns to make that wonderful popping sound. We often struck the cap strips with stones, setting off a whole string of pops at once. The smell of freshly popped caps is still one of my favorite childhood smells.

Metal guns were eventually removed from our toy collection after my brother Buddy, also known as Kenny, around age eight, threw one at my brother Jeff. Jeff ended up needing stitches in his face. Somehow, in the years that followed, I think my younger brothers regained custody of those guns, because I distinctly remember sitting in an emergency room while a doctor stitched a cut above my baby brother Todd’s eye. This time, Jeff had thrown a metal pistol at him.

If my memory is even close, Jeff would have been nine and Todd five.

Looking back, those toys were never really about the toys at all. They were about freedom, imagination, and a kind of trust that felt woven into childhood. We played hard, we took risks we didn’t even recognize as risks, and most of the time we came home in one piece, carrying stories instead of scars. I am grateful for the dolls that were loved quietly, the games played outdoors until dark, and even the toys that would never pass today’s safety tests. They were part of a time when childhood felt wide open, and we were allowed to explore it fully.

 

Some Trends Are Best Left to the Young (and Warm)

There is a current fashion trend that I cannot comprehend. Not at all. It is the trend to go pantless. This trend involves wearing underwear or very short bottoms like bloomers, hot pants, or briefs instead of pants or a skirt in public. Some people will wear a bulky sweater or a fitted jacket, while others will go with skimpier tops.

A daring look meant to draw attention to the legs and to denote individualism may work for confident and beautiful models/actors/singers. Let's face it, it is not a look for an overweight sixty-nine year old. Even when I was younger, and thinner, I would never have had the confidence to wear my underwear in public and call it fashion. Though I do remember a neighbor in the 1960's who wore really short shorts. I would go to play with her children and she would wear those shorts and I would be embarassed for her. I was ten years old and she was the first woman (not a girl or a teen) that I had ever seen in shorts. I don't remember my mom or my aunts ever wearing shorts.

I asked ChatGPT to create a cartton image of an elderly woman wearing granny underwear, boots, and a bulky sweater for my blog on pantless styles. ChatGPT's appeared to be creating an image and then responded: "We’re so sorry, but the image we created may violate our guardrails around nudity, sexuality, or erotic content. If you think we got it wrong, please retry or edit your prompt."

I tried again with this prompt: No nudity please! The woman should be wearing granny underwear or bloomers , a sweater, and boots. The woman should be elderly and a cartoon figure. There is a trend for people to go pantless - instead they wear underwear, short shorts, or bloomers and then a jacket or sweater. 

This time, ChatGPT produced the image below and even offered to tweak it later if I wanted to change the colors.

Color was not my concern, but I did wonder whether the image might look more attractive with a thinner model and a more fashionable boot.

I will let you judge for yourself.

I admire the confidence it takes to step outside wearing little more than underwear and a sweater. Truly, I do. But at this stage of my life, and in a Minnesota winter, my boldest fashion statement is choosing warmth over spectacle. When the windchill is flirting with zero, pants are not just unfashionable to skip, they are essential. Pantless may be trending, but long underwear, wool socks, and a good pair of pants still reign supreme in my closet.

So tell me, would you be willing to go pantless to make a fashion statement?

A Lesson From a Small Ohio Classroom

This morning, as I scrolled through the news, I found myself thinking about a lesson I learned in a small Ohio junior high classroom in 1969. I attended a consolidated school in a town of about 400 people, with roughly 200 students from several surrounding communities. This was not a big-city school. It was a small, rural place.

In that setting, Mrs. Chiles taught us World History and told us that one of the things that made the United States a great country to live in was freedom of speech. She talked about countries like Russia and China, where people could be arrested and imprisoned simply for speaking their minds. One day she said something that has stayed with me all these years: “The stronger the leaders, the more free speech will be found. Only leaders who are weak will shut down the right of people to speak out.”

I was thirteen at the time. It is hard to believe that fifty-seven years later, our current leadership treats free speech as if it were a crime. Journalists, activists, political pundits, historians, and everyday people are threatened, ridiculed, and investigated in an effort to silence them.

I live in Minnesota now, but as the headlines grow heavier, I realize how deeply those early lessons about democracy and free speech still shape how I see what is happening around us.

Last week a friend reached out to me and wrote, “I did want to warn you … the majority of people in our county are MAGA, so you may want to tread lightly.” This came after we had connected on Facebook and moved beyond occasional group get-togethers. Anyone new to my private Facebook page could quickly figure out that I am a liberal. According to forty-seven, that apparently makes me “scum” or Antifa. I am just grateful Antifa does not require dues or ask for five dollars today to support the cause, or I would be broke.

She began her message by assuring me that she is not MAGA and has never voted for forty-seven. I appreciated both the honesty and the warning. I told her I already suspected it was a red county and that I had done my homework. So far, I have not had any direct political confrontations in the communities where we shop or dine out.

I have met conservatives who voted for forty-seven, and I have also heard concerns from some of those same people about threats toward Greenland, the way ICE is operating, and reports of Venezuelans being killed on boats accused of drug trafficking.  Many Republicans I know who voted for forty-seven simply because they are multi-generational Republicans have grown noticeably quiet.

I am deeply proud of every single person showing up to protest in this region. Kudos to those buying groceries, taking children of immigrants to school, and standing up for immigrant families in real, tangible ways. When I see people on social media telling protesters to stop “getting in the way” of ICE, I cannot help but wonder what they are willing to tolerate if their advice is simply to comply with this regime.

Most of all, I am thankful for Martin Luther King, Jr. and for every person involved in the Civil Rights Movement. They are the ones who taught this country how to protest. They showed us that nonviolent resistance, public witness, and moral courage can move a nation. Yet the deep irony is that Black lives remain at risk in the very country they helped reshape, even as others now borrow their methods to defend freedom. Their courage, their willingness to pay the price, sometimes with their lives, and their eventual success continue to guide and strengthen today’s resistance to ICE and to the current political regime, at a time when people like Stephen Miller are pushing the United States toward white nationalism.

Thank you to everyone who refuses to be silenced.

 

Day of Rest and A Few Things to Think About (or Smile About)

Oliver's First Birthday Bash

Our youngest grandchild turned one this week, and today was his big birthday bash at Megan and Jeremy’s house. Friends and family gathered, filling the house with people for Oliver to study. And study he did.

Joe and I arrived about an hour before the party, while Oliver was still taking his morning nap. When Jeremy brought him down from the nursery, Grandma Hilda and her partner, Larry, had just arrived too. Oliver was very much in waking-up mode and stared at them intently. Their last visit had been when he was a newborn, and his stare now was serious and focused, like he was taking notes. Oliver doesn’t glance at people. He studies them.

The first smile of the day appeared when Grandpa Joe walked into the room. That smile alone felt like a small celebration.

As more guests arrived and made a well-deserved fuss over the birthday boy, Oliver continued his careful observations. New faces, familiar faces, and perhaps the growing realization that he seems to have a lot of grandmas and grandpas. Grandma Kathy and Grandpa Greg stayed behind in California this time, but everyone else showed up in full force.

Two of Oliver’s one-year-old playmates came with their mamas. One little boy is already walking, while the little girl is close, moving confidently from one piece of furniture to the next. Between the people, the babies, and the steady stream of attention, Oliver seemed quite content with his crowded world.

By the time we got home, I was done. I stretched out and took a two-hour nap, which felt every bit as celebratory as the party itself. It turns out my wild party days are behind me, but watching a one-year-old take in his world is a pretty sweet way to spend them now.

Brrr… Baby It’s Cold Outside: Things I Can’t Live Without (Part 6)

Beth created image using ChatGPT

The first winter we lived in Minnesota, in 2024, I bought a heavy duty winter jacket. I wore it once. Most days I grabbed a flannel jacket I had picked up at Costco because I liked the style, or I wore a sweater instead. The same thing happened during the winter of 2025. That heavy duty jacket mostly hung in the closet.

This winter is a different story. That jacket is finally earning its keep and getting plenty of wear.

I also bought heavy duty snow boots, which I have yet to wear. Still, it is comforting to know they are there if I ever need them after a heavy snow. So far, my system has worked just fine. I stay home, or Joe and I drive from the garage to wherever we are going. I wait in the car while Joe shops, then we drive home and back into the garage. Voila. No trudging through snow for me.

As for gloves and mittens, I have plenty. They live upstairs in a drawer and are remembered maybe two or three times over the years.

All of this is to say, I am keeping all of my winter outdoor wear.

The updated list of things I can’t live without:

1. Vehicle (KEEP)
2. Cell phone (KEEP)
3. Computer (KEEP)
4. Printer/Copier (KEEP)
5. Kitchen “stuff” (KEEP)
6. Sentimental keepsakes (KEEP)
7. Pets (Live without, eventually)
8. Plants, garden and inside house plants (KEEP)
9. Beans (KEEP)
10. Winter outdoor wear (KEEP)

Winter outdoor wear is the tenth and final item on the list, so tonight I am officially wrapping up this series. Now it is time to come up with something new to write about. Hmmm. Maybe five personality traits that aggravate me. Other people’s, or my own.

Interlude #5: A Busy Week, With More to Come

Tonight’s post is an Interlude to my Can I Live Without It series. The simple truth is that I am tired. This has been a busy week for us and I am plumb tuckered out. So instead of digging into anything deep, I am sharing a few highlights from our week and calling it good. I plan to get back to regular writing tomorrow. At least that is the hope.

Friday is our usual shopping day, and we will also be watching Oliver for a bit in the evening. In between, there are all the usual fun activities like putting groceries away, doing laundry, and squeezing in my eighty minutes of daily activity.

Yesterday I had an EKG because my doctor was concerned about a heart murmur. Her message afterward was short and sweet: “Echo shows your heart is pumping effectively. Have a great day Beth!” I gladly accepted that good news and moved on.

Also yesterday, our solar system officially went live. We had a sunny day and immediately started racking up some solar energy. Today was more overcast, and we still produced a little, which feels like a small win.

Today we had both kitchen sink faucets replaced and a new garbage disposal installed. The plumber was here for about two hours. When Joe asked how to drain the water heater, the plumber showed him and went ahead and drained it while he was here, at no charge. During Joe’s vacation, he replaced the garbage disposal in the other kitchen himself. Let’s just say it took him longer than the trained plumber. Joe is much less expensive, though.

Today also came with a milestone. Oliver, our youngest grandson, turned one year old. We will be celebrating his birthday on Saturday. And on Monday, our granddaughter Charlotte turns ten. She is celebrating tomorrow night with two friends spending the night, starting the evening with manicures and pedicures at a salon. That feels very ten years old.

By the time Sunday rolls around, I am planning a full day of rest. No projects. No lists. Just a pause. Tonight’s Interlude is my way of easing into that slower pace.

I Can't Live Without ... Beans (Part 6)

(Beth created with ChatGPT)

Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you…

Actually, that part has never been true for me. No tooting here from beans.

What is true is that beans have become a daily staple in my healthy eating plan. My goal is 25 grams of fiber per day, and the easiest way I know to get there is by eating beans. Black beans and pinto beans are my favorites from the legume family. I also enjoy lentils and split peas, though they are a bit lower in fiber. And edamame makes a great snack. All of them are terrific sources of protein.

Most mornings I eat a cup of black beans for breakfast, paired with cottage cheese and wild blueberries. That one cup of beans provides about 15 grams of fiber, which makes the remaining 10 grams much easier to pick up throughout the day. Black beans, in particular, are rich in protein, antioxidants, folate, and magnesium, in addition to all that fiber. They also support heart health and help with blood sugar control.

As I continue this series on things I can live without, I am putting beans firmly in the “prefer not to live without” category. We all know by now that everything on this list is technically something I could live without, so this is really about preference. Of everything I have considered so far, beans probably come the closest to something I truly could not live without, at least not for very long.

My updated list:

• Vehicle (KEEP)

• Cell phone (KEEP)

• Computer (KEEP)

• Printer/Copier (KEEP)

• Kitchen “stuff” (KEEP)

• Sentimental keepsakes (KEEP)

• Pets (Live without, eventually)

• Plants, garden and inside house plants (KEEP)

• Beans (KEEP)

Joe has been eating beans for decades. They are in his lunch every day and in most of his evening meals. He also eats plenty of other foods that are good for you, lots of fruits, vegetables, and healthy grains. For the past 14 and a half weeks, I have been eating like Joe, and my body loves it. Joe likes to say, “You have come over to the dark side.”

This morning, my brain loved it too. Thanks to Coach Becky’s guidance with manageable macro balances and a reasonable amount of activity, I have now lost 30 pounds and a similar number of inches. I especially appreciate calling it “activity” instead of “exercise.” The best part is that I am not hungry, I enjoy what I eat, and I have more energy than I have had in a long time.

So yes. Beans, beans, the magical fruit.
The more you eat, the healthier you feel.

Interlude #4: American Citizen/Legal Observer Detained by ICE Shares His Experience

This morning I watched an interview with two American citizens, Brandon Siguenza and Patty O’Keefe, who were detained by ICE yesterday while serving as legal observers in Minneapolis. I am sharing Brandon Siguenza’s written account of that experience. No matter where you stand on what ICE is doing in Minnesota right now, I believe it is essential to understand what is actually happening, to reflect on what we as citizens believe is justifiable, and to recognize the very real risks taken by people who choose to stand up for their neighbors and their community. When I read comments like, “Yes, this is what I voted for,” I worry about the level of cruelty required to excuse actions that are both illegal and inhumane.

 Good morning,

My name is Brandon Siguenza, and I am a US citizen from Minneapolis. Yesterday, while doing legal observation, ICE stopped their cars to harass my friend and me. They sprayed pepper spray into the vent of our vehicle. We held our hands in the air and told them we were not obstructing, that the car was in park and they were free to drive forward and away. There was no active immigration raid. They returned to their cars, and drove forward a bit, then decided to stop again. They surrounded us, smashed the windows of our car, opened the doors (they were unlocked), ripped my friend and I out of the car and arrested us on charges of obstruction.

I was put in an unmarked SUV, separated from my friend. As I was put in the back seat an ICE agent tore the whistle off my neck and said “I’ll be taking this, I might need it later.” My phone was knocked out of my hand while being arrested. As we drove away I asked the driver and the passenger if they wouldn’t mind buckling my seatbelt, as they were driving erratically. I was ignored. I asked them if I could have the handcuffs loosened, as I was losing circulation, and was told no. At one point the passenger realized his own driver's license was in the backseat next to mine, and tried to surreptitiously grab it without me seeing it.

We were taken to the Whipple federal building, where I saw dozens of brown people being processed in an unheated garage. I was frisked, told of my charges, and saw buses and vans being prepped. I later learned that these were being filled with detainees and driven to the airport for deportation. As we were led in, I noticed that the building was very busy. I got the impression that one of the 2 agents bringing me around was being trained. At multiple points throughout my stay, government agents were unable to open doors, not sure where they were meant to be going, and overall confused and overwhelmed. They couldn’t figure out how to use the building phones, or complained about a lack of cell service preventing them from checking the internet or making calls.

The people in the cells were extremely scared. We heard people screaming "let me out!", crying, wailing and terrified screams. There were cells with as many as 8 people. I have no way of knowing how long they have been there, if they were allowed any contact with the outside world, or if they were being brought food or water. Most people were staring at the ground with almost no energy. I was not allowed to talk to anyone imprisoned. I distinctly remember seeing a desperate woman. She was staring at the ground with her head in her hands crying, hopeless, while her friend or family member sat on a bathroom seat observed by 3 men.

My friend and I were put in an area for "USCs," which we eventually learned meant US citizens, separated by gender. We were imprisoned for 8 hours, during which my friend was never allowed a phone call. I was allowed to call my wife and tell her where I was. During my interview with Special Agent William and Special Agent Garcia, they asked me to empty my pockets. When I pulled out gloves, Agent William said those were meant to be taken when I was processed, and complained about having to fill out the form again. He frisked me once more, where he found glass in my pocket from when our car window was shattered. He filled out the form listing my personal items again, but put the wrong date. I was read my rights, I pleaded the fifth and was led back to my cell.

Food, water, and bathroom breaks were extremely difficult to acquire. I would ask over the intercom provided in the cell for a bathroom break, be told someone was on their way, then ask again 20 minutes later, be told someone was on their way, wait another 20 minutes, etc. Eventually they either turned off the intercom or it stopped working, because no one would respond. I could get water and bathroom breaks by pounding on the glass when someone happened to walk by and beg them directly. Hours would go by without anyone checking on us. I am vegan and the only food they offered were turkey sandwiches, fruit snacks with gelatin, and granola bars with honey. I eventually ate a granola bar out of hunger.

I was in the cell alone for between 1 and 2 hours, then another man was put into my cell, whose shirt was ripped open from his arrest, and an injured toe, who was carried aggressively into an unmarked car during his arrest. After about 4-5 hours, another man was brought in who had a cut on his head from his arrest. He told me he was tackled by 4 or 5 agents during his arrest. At no point was he offered medical assistance.

Later I was told that a lawyer was here to see me, and I was able to speak with him in a visitation room. The special agent told me that the door could not be closed all the way, so it was cracked during my interaction with my lawyer. I got the impression that they were not used to having lawyers present, and were trying to follow procedure as best they could. I asked an agent if the other detainees were allowed lawyers and was not answered.

At one point, 3 men from the department of Homeland Security Investigations brought me into a cell. They insinuated that they could help me out. After inquiring several times what exactly they meant they finally told me that they could offer undocumented family members of mine legal protection if I have any (I don’t), or money, in exchange for giving them the names of protest organizers, or undocumented persons. I was shocked, and told them no.

Finally, after hours of detention, I was told to follow an agent. At no point was I told whether or not I was being charged, or where I was going, but I was led out of the building. I asked if I could use a phone to call my wife to pick me up, and was told I could not. After pleading for several minutes eventually Special Agent William let me use his phone to call my wife. As I was escorted off the property by government agents, I was told to turn right. I was escorted to the protest area, where 5 minutes later, tear gas was deployed and I was struck by a paint ball gun. I was not protesting, I was simply being released without charges after an 8 hour detention. I was on the other side of the street, as instructed by the agents that released me and the agents shouting orders over a bullhorn. A passerby who was tear gassed was panicking and having an asthma attack, so I helped her find a medic to get her an inhaler. I used a stranger's phone to co-ordinate pickup, and was picked up by my wife.

During my detention I knew that I was being released. I knew that as a citizen of the United States I have legal protection. The hundred or so other people being detained had no such protection. At this time I don’t need your help, it is the families that are being separated, abused, terrorized, harassed and killed that need your help. If this is happening to me, an American citizen born in the United States, then what is happening to the people in here that have no one calling lawyers on their behalf? That have no constitutional rights to due process? What is happening to the people that they will never be released to see their families, go to their jobs, or walk through their city ever again?

Please take care of yourselves, your family, and your community. I am safe and healthy, if you feel compelled to help, please offer your help to the Immigrant Defense Network at https://immigrantdefensenetwork.org/. If you know someone detained by ICE, call or text CAIR-MN at 612-206-3360 for 24/7 legal intake.

Interview link: Taken by ICE & Detained | Breaking the News Plus

NIght off

 Taking tonight off! Back tomorrow.

Can I Live Without It? Living a Life With Plants (Part 5)

Image created by Beth using ChatGPT

One of the advantages of having moved to Minnesota in 2023 is that I had time to purge as we packed. Because we knew a full year in advance that we would be moving, I began the process in 2022, giving items away as we decided we no longer needed them. Having the luxury of time made the decisions easier and allowed us to be more thoughtful than if everything had been done in a frantic couple of weeks.

That reality makes writing this series tougher each day as I think about the items and things I claim I can live without. The truth is, we could live without everything on the list. We would find other ways to get where we need to go or to do what needs to be done. If I were faced with a life of austerity, I know I could manage. I might complain occasionally, but I would adapt.

There is, however, one thing that would be very difficult for Joe and me to give up completely. Plants. Whether it is an outdoor garden or herbs growing in pots on the kitchen windowsill, plants are part of our everyday life and something we both deeply appreciate.

One thing we did not move across the country was our old collection of houseplants. Since then, we have slowly added plants to nearly every room, with the exception of our bedroom. That may change when Joe retires, for real, at the end of March and returns to his natural 9:30 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. sleep schedule. When the blackout curtains come down, I may try to find a hardy plant that can thrive in that space.

Joe is also planning to build another retaining wall this spring or summer, creating a terrace above the garden and patio area. I have already started collecting ideas for what we might plant there. A standalone grape arbor is high on my list, even though it will take years to fully grow in. I am also drawn to different types of decorative grasses. The final choices will have to wait until we see how much space we actually have once the work is finished.

Plants bring us peace. They root us to where we are, remind us to slow down, and quietly mark the passing of time. Of all the things on my list, they are the ones that make a house feel like home.

Items considered:

• Vehicle (KEEP)

• Cell phone (KEEP)

• Computer (KEEP)

• Printer/Copier (KEEP)

• Kitchen “stuff” (KEEP)

• Sentimental keepsakes (KEEP)

• Pets (Live without, eventually)

• Plants, garden and inside house plants (KEEP)

Interlude #3: An Evening Measured in Small Steps

Joe and I stayed with Oliver this evening while Jeremy and Megan enjoyed a date night in Minneapolis. Playing with Oliver is a lot of fun, and we both came home amazed at how many steps we logged. Most of Joe’s came from following behind Oliver as he free-range crawled around the house, exploring every corner. My steps came from getting dinner on the table, cleaning up afterward, and spending time crawling around with him in the play area.

Our babysitting gig started at 5:00 p.m. and lasted until about 8:30. Oliver was a happy baby for most of the evening. At one point, Grandpa Joe stepped out of the play area for a few minutes, and I was immediately rewarded with Oliver’s unhappy face and the small cry he uses to let us know something isn’t quite right. I told him Grandpa would be right back. The cry stopped, but the sad face stayed. Oliver sat in the same spot, facing the kitchen, waiting. The moment Grandpa came back into view, Oliver lit up with a beaming smile. He really does love his Grandpa.

Right around 8:00 p.m., I fixed Oliver a bottle and sat down on the couch with Grandpa. Oliver snuggled in close, drank his bottle, and reached out with his free hand to play with mine. It was such a simple, precious moment - one of those you wish you could tuck away and revisit later.

Oliver will turn one year old next Wednesday. Our granddaughter Charlotte turns ten on Monday the 19th. Somehow, they keep growing faster than my heart can keep up with, and evenings like this are gentle reminders to soak it all in while we can.

Can I Live Without Pets? Ask the Cat. (Part 4)

Today I have been thinking, “Are pets something I can live without?” They are not people, though we get as attached to our pets as we do to people. I can say this with certainty: I can live without pets.

That said, I do not wish Alto, our grandcat who lives with us, to go away or to cross the rainbow bridge prematurely. Still, I look forward to the day when we no longer have any pets. I want to be able to travel or leave the house for an entire day without worrying that Alto will starve.

She is not a cat you can leave with a week’s worth of dry food and call it good. She only eats wet food, as it is the only food she will not throw up on a regular basis. Because of that, we feed her small quantities several times a day.

Alto also insists on a clean litter box. We clean it daily, and sometimes she is very clear that she would prefer it cleaned more often. She has trained Joe and me to check her food, check her litter box, and check to see if she has thrown up somewhere. These are the three things she “vocally communicates” with us most about. Joe calls it whining.

As I try to write this, she is headbutting my arm in demand of some serious petting. At least once a week, she knocks items off my desk and I completely lose it. Yesterday it was a basket of papers and supplements. My response is usually to yell, “Damn, Cat!” She then scurries away to hide until I calm down.

Part of me understands that I am assigning intent to her, and that is probably unreasonable. However, anyone who has ever lived with a cat knows that they love knocking things off surfaces. You would think I would wise up.

Sometimes I wonder if Alto ever asks herself whether she could live without these high-maintenance people.

First six items, out of ten, I would keep:

• Vehicle (KEEP)
• Cell phone (KEEP)
• Computer (KEEP)
• Printer/Copier (KEEP)
• Kitchen “stuff” (KEEP)
• Sentimental keepsakes (KEEP)
• Pets (Live without, eventually)

For now, Alto is here, and so are the routines, the messes, and the unexpected headbutts. I may believe I can live without pets, but today I am living with one. And like so many things on my list, this is less about permanence and more about accepting what matters in the season I am in.

Can I Live Without It? The Things We Tuck Away (Part 3)

Created by Beth using ChatGPT

I started The Ten Things I Can’t Live Without series as an opportunity for reflection. My goal was to have a bit of fun with it. What surprised me, though, was discovering that I was also developing an appreciation for certain items simply because they make my life easier. That realization led me to wonder if I should also look at a different category altogether - items with sentimental value.

To review, here’s the list of items I’ve looked at so far and decided to keep:

• Vehicle (KEEP)

• Cell phone (KEEP)

• Computer (KEEP)

• Printer/Copier (KEEP)

• Kitchen “stuff” (KEEP)

When I think of sentimental items, I think of photo albums; saved artwork and stories our three children created over the years; the fishing rod that belonged to my dad; a small glass basket that belonged to my mom; and the recipes my maternal grandmother collected over time.

The fishing rod lives in one of my dresser drawers, the one filled with odds-n-ends (not the kitchen junk drawer). I hadn’t thought about it since packing it away in 2022 while preparing for our move from California to Minnesota in 2023. Just last week, while rummaging in that drawer, Joe held up the collapsible rod and asked, “Why do you have this?” He assumed it was one of the rods his dad had given him years ago. My response was immediate and emotional. “No! That was my dad’s!” I teared up, and Joe dropped the rod back into the drawer like it was on fire.

I’ve been holding on to that rod since 1989, when my dad died at the age of 53. While it’s been tucked away, I always knew it was there. I’m still not ready to pass it along to anyone else. Well… maybe one of my brothers could have it someday. I assume they already have their own, though, and for now I still need it tucked safely in that drawer.

It’s the same with the small glass basket that belonged to my mom. And with the letter she wrote to me in 1974, when I married and left Ohio for California. That letter has lived in various dresser drawers over the years. Two or three times a year I come across it, stop, and read it. The emotion I feel is just as intense as it was the very first time I read it on my wedding night in 1974.

Our children’s stories and artwork stir up those same intense feelings. Most of them are tucked into a box in the upstairs hall closet. Every few years I pull it out and spend time revisiting their childhood work. Those memories are precious.

While writing this, I realized I’ve also held on to a few pieces of my own childhood writing. There’s a play I wrote in sixth grade, handwritten on old blue, smudged mimeograph paper. (For those unfamiliar, the play was “mimeographed” so each performer could have a copy to practice their parts. Our teacher even encouraged us to perform it in front of the class.) I also have a short story I wrote in seventh grade that placed second in an area-wide contest. I have a vague memory of reading it aloud to an audience of other middle school students in a hall at Defiance College.

Part of me thinks I should just toss those stories. It’s unlikely my daughter will want them, and they’re certainly not of any historical significance. And yet… I’m not ready to let them go. I’m not entirely sure why.

The good news is that we have plenty of storage, so holding on to these things isn’t a hardship for us.

And the photo albums? They’re staying. My kids can toss them someday. I can’t bring myself to let the visual history of the people in my life, many of whom have passed on, fade away.

This little detour into sentimental things wasn’t part of my original plan when I started the Ten Things I Can’t Live Without series. But recent events, particularly the death of Renee Nicole Good, have a way of nudging reflection in unexpected directions. Some items are useful. Some items make life easier. And some items quietly remind us of who we are, of where we’ve been, and of who loved us along the way. For now, those things can stay tucked into drawers and boxes, quietly waiting for me to visit as needed.