Let's write about driving Route 66 "The Mother Road"

No need to buy a camper to see Route 66, because this article seems to give a great tour without having to leave your home! Lots of great pictures accompany this article on USA Today if you go to the link here. By Sara D. Wire


Three generations, two cars, 2,000 miles on Route 66On Route 66’s 100th anniversary, a cross‑country road trip with my kids and parents became less about distance — and more about love, loss and time together.

It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to drive Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica, California, with my kids and my parents as part of US A TODAY's American Journeys series.
I was nervous about taking young kids on such a long trip, but everyone agreed that an article about the great American family road trip taken on the Mother Road's 100th anniversary had to include my family.

Then my father lost both of his siblings in eight months. The chance to deepen my relationship with my parents and theirs with their grandsons as we drove two-thirds of the country held new meaning.
I tried to prepare Robbie, 6, and Tommy, 4, by watching "Cars" and talking about how Radiator Springs (Disney's mythical town on Route 66) got left behind when the highway moved.

Planning began a year out. Balancing the interests, needs and attention spans of three generations took coordination. We'd each driven parts of the route, but always as a means to an end, not something to savor.

My husband, John, and I used to brag about measuring time in miles. One Christmas, when the kids were sick, we drove 17 hours straight from Washington, DC, to Kansas. Route 66 demands a different mindset.

Built in 1926, as “the shortest, best and most scenic route from Chicago through St. Louis to Los Angeles," according to the Route 66 Highway Association, the road is now about the trip, not the destination.Route 66 was a path to new opportunity during the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl. John Steinbeck called it "Mother Road" in his 1939 novel, “The Grapes of Wrath."

The Route's image as a place of freedom and "kicks" solidified after World War II, as American tourists had the money to explore their country. Meanwhile, President Dwight Eisenhower began pushing for the creation of high-speed interstates, a move that led to the Route's official demise.

Even though the federal government officially removed the road from the federal system in 1985, Americans moved to preserve and expand it.

Hundreds of thousands now travel Route 66 each year, including foreign travelers, honeymooners, retirees in RVs and families trying to connect. COVID-19 made Route 66 more attractive for domestic travelers, Rhys Martin, manager of the National Trust for Historic Preservation’s Preserve Route 66 program, told me. So, also, did Disney/Pixar’s Cars in 2006.
"Be careful. It will get into your blood,” he warned.
I was just hoping to build memories.
The six of us had never been together this long.
My career pulled my husband and me thousands of miles from both sets of our parents. We fit in a few days or even a week a few times a year, just long enough to reconnect before separating again.
At two weeks out, my excitement competed with my anxiety. At night, I'd stare into the darkness; was it smart to put all of us through this trip?Chicago and the Land of Giants: Chicago-style pizza and a photo of our reflections in the bean sculpture "Cloud Gate" were necessary before we snagged a photo at Route 66’s most recent starting point.

Tommy would have lain on his belly all day and watched the arapaima ‒ a massive freshwater fish that can breathe air ‒ in the Shedd Aquarium's Amazon exhibit.

Robbie befriended the beluga whales, naming one “Friendly.”
Robbie was already asking how long until we flew home because he wanted to tell his friends about the Bowmouth Guitarfish we saw. It took a few more days before either boy grasped just how long the drive would be.

Early on, John and I pulled a trick from our own childhoods, asking Robbie to count cars on a passing train. After stopping at the Gemini Giant in Wilmington, Illinois ‒ one of dozens of the more than 18-feet-tall roadside attractions along the route ‒ we fell into a rhythm of hopping in and out of the car: more giants, preserved gas stations, a Route 66 Museum. We made it to Lincoln’s Tomb in Springfield, Illinois, five minutes before the cemetery gates closed and we nearly got locked inside.
We tried to put Robbie with the grandparents after lunch, but he didn’t want to be away from his brother.

The old road runs right along the modern replacement, grass and weeds gradually breaking it up. We pulled over to stand on it for a few minutes. The wind howled in our ears as we tried to picture the lives that passed over it.Missouri curves: Walking across the old Chain of Rocks Bridge gave everyone a chance to stretch their legs. It also gave us our first taste of the wind that would follow us across the state.

The boys started to settle into the reality of a road trip: reading, playing with stuffed animals and staring out the window. We introduced our favorite road trip game, yelling “cows” or “horses.”
As Route 66 followed hills and bluffs, we passed towns my Missouri-native husband didn’t know existed. The boys filled a bag with taffy from US 66 Outpost in Fanning, home to the world’s second-largest rocking chair.

At a diner in St. James, the boys split a strawberry milkshake. They fought over who got to sit next to Papa Bob. Both did.
From the next table, Debra Holbrook, 70, asked us for directions. Five days after learning Route 66 was on her husband’s bucket list, they left New Hampshire with their rescue dog, Blaze.
“My garden can’t go in till after Mother’s Day, so I figured, 'Hey, there’s this six-week window,'" she said. “I said, 'Let’s just do it.'”
Past bedtime, we raced to the hotel in Springfield and got our first glimpse of the Route’s legendary neon signs. Tommy plaintively asked, "Why are you driving everywhere?"Roadside kitsch: Pixar animators studying Route 66 for "Cars" based Tow Mater on a rusty truck with a tree growing out of it in Galena, which sits on Kansas' 13 miles of Route 66, said Renee Charles, owner of the Cars on the Route tourist attraction.

Down the street, Gearhead Curios owner Aaron Perry said he dreamed of owning a piece of Route 66 after driving it to visit family as a child. The old Texaco gas station he bought in 2018, had no roof. Trees grew through its bathroom. “I tell people Route 66 is the dreams, the what ifs, the what was, the what could be,” he said

At the Crosstar Flag and Tag attraction in Afton, Oklahoma, the owner allowed the boys to climb inside some of the cars. For the rest of the trip, Tommy tried to open every old car he saw.

Small town charms: We decided that if the boys wouldn’t switch cars, the adults would. Nana rode in the minivan with me as we left Tulsa. We got eyerolls when we sang "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain." It had been a long time since we sang together.
The kids finally asked to watch TV in the car. I conveniently forgot to mention the tablet as we passed a giant thumbtack and matchstick in Wellston, Oklahoma. In Arcadia, we stopped at the oldest attraction on the Route. Built in 1898 and painted red, the Round Barn smelled of bur oak wood and dried grass.
Robbie said he wished we hadn't gone on the trip. My heart sank. Five minutes later, he happily skipped his way into Pops 66 Soda Ranch for his first soda.

The road to see the longest bridge on the Route, the 1933, Pony Bridge near Bridgeport, was cracked and bumpy. Suddenly, the scenery changed from flat and brown to green and purple scrub brush-covered red dirt hills. The span was closed, so we got to watch the transition in reverse. 

Family on the road: Three museums in a day was ambitious. Papa Bob hopped into a training cockpit at the Stafford Air and Space Museum in Weatherford.

At the Oklahoma Route 66 Museum in Clinton, the boys read, touched and heard the story of the road, decade by decade.
The woman at the front desk of the Devil’s Rope Museum in McLean, Texas, was thrilled Bob Wire was visiting the barbed wire exhibits. She even checked his driver’s license.

We ended the day in Amarillo, which holds a piece of my heart. My granny lived there with my dad’s sister, Susie, and her husband, John, for the last decade of her life. I had put off telling Susie we might visit because I didn’t want to get her hopes up. John and Susie met Robbie at his first Christmas but had never seen Tommy. Susie died two months before my trip was approved.

Uncle John showed the boys his horse, Levi, and taught them how to feed him. It felt unfair that Susie wasn’t standing beside him and waving goodbye as we left. Cadillac Ranch as the sun rose: The clouds over Cadillac Ranch at sunrise will stay with me forever. Robbie, Papa Bob, John and I walked along the dirt path and applied our names and the year in a layer of light blue spray paint, permanently adding our journey to the art installation.
I begrudgingly shared bites of my cherry cobbler at the Midpoint Cafe and Gift Shop in Adrian, Texas.

Owner Brenda Hammit Bradley told me she plans to sell at the end of the year, “I love this place, but I'm 65 years old and I'm tired. I make a lot of pie and if I never saw another pie pan again, I would be a happy lady."

Much of New Mexico’s Route 66 is under the interstate or on dirt roads, which we woI joked over the walkie-talkie about camping beneath a jagged roadside monolith.

Tucumcari’s murals, neon signs and the Blue Swallow Motel were delightful. The scent of sagebrush wafted over it all. The fossils and bronze skeletons in the Mesalands Community College's Dinosaur Museum kept the boys entertained.

We had ice cream twice:  The dozens of creatures at Albuquerque’s Rattlesnake Museum lived up to Robbie's expectations, especially when one rattled its tail.

We passed Owl Rock and Dead Man’s Curve on Laguna Pueblo land. It was heartbreaking to see the mesa that was blasted through to build the four-lane Route 66, which eventually became Interstate 40. Dramatic pink mesas popular in cowboy movies dominated the skyline as far as we could see.

We stopped for an afternoon ice cream at Dairy Queen, a childhood tradition my dad continued with his three other grandsons, but hadn't yet done with my boys.

In Gallup, dinner came with free scoops of ice cream. We almost said no. But who knows, the day the kids got ice cream twice might be their favorite memory from the trip.

Hiking with Papa Bob:  Robbie declared Petrified Forest National Park's Painted Desert "a-maz-ing." John almost drove off the road at the sight of the blue mesa.

I tried not to get misty-eyed as the boys chattered at Papa Bob while hiking the Crystal Forest, another first.

We did the touristy thing and stood on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, and then scrambled to find a restaurant open on Easter while humming the Eagles' “Take It Easy.” At the La Posada Hotel restaurant, the boys embraced Nana's favorite grandkid game of "don’t wipe off my kisses." Every meal ends with a pile of crayon drawings for her refrigerator.

Grand Canyon:  The Grand Canyon is breathtaking and also terrifying with a 4-year-old along.

Taking it in for the first time, Tommy asked, "Is this the giant 'normous Canyon?" For the next few hours, he reassured me he would not jump in. Then he walked toward the edge.

Finally, my heart couldn’t take it. We took the shuttle back and drove the park ourselves. My newfound fear of heights quickly disappeared when Tommy napped.

Even in my mind's eye, the view still takes my breath away.

"It really gets to you," my dad said.

He last visited at age 18, thinking he could hike down and camp until a ranger asked for his permit.

Multiple people have told me about falling in love with Route 66 and driving it over and over. For me, it opened something wider. I want to explore what else I’ve missed. I hope this trip creates that restless feeling for my boys, too. What's over the next hill? What stories are waiting? I hope they take me along.

The sidewinder:  In Seligman, Arizona, you can see Route 66's legacy of dirt, brick and asphalt under the existing road. This is where Angel Delgadillo fought to save his hometown after I-40 bypassed it. He helped protect the highway nationwide. Seated in her father’s barber chair, Mirna Delgadillo, 62, said preserving Route 66 protects our history.

“Do we know where we’re going, if we don’t know where we came from?” she said.

The “sidewinder” is the kind of road you hope exists somewhere. It climbs 3,550 feet through the Black Mountains, twisting through blind hairpin turns.

In Oatman, an old gold mining town, donkeys followed tourists along the boardwalks and into stores. Just like the boys, Nana was as giddy to feed the donkeys grass pellets that sold for a dollar a bag. Tommy named them. Robbie found his souvenir for the day, a rattlesnake stuffie in a can. Thankfully, Papa Bob had a can opener, sparing us hours of hearing about it.

I joked over the walkie-talkie about camping beneath a jagged roadside monolith.

“You are your father’s daughter,” my mom replied. “He just said the same thing.”

California desert:  When Nana played her kisses game at breakfast, Robbie made sure she knew he didn’t wipe them. Tommy laughed, doing the opposite.

On the lonely stretch of road along the Mojave Desert, I was struck by how much of the country ‒ cities, ghost towns, small towns, mountains and prairies ‒ we had crossed in just two weeks.

Past Roy's Motel and Cafe in Amboy, the kids started to argue. So we rolled down the window and they both stuck a little hand out to ride the wind. The boys ran around the teepees at the Wigwam Motel in San Bernardino. We hopped into the pool with Papa Bob, another first.

Dipping our toes in the Pacific:  In the Los Angeles area, the game of shouting out when we saw a cow or horse became shouting out whenever the boys saw a palm tree.

We grabbed pre-lunch ice cream at the Fair Oaks Pharmacy in South Pasadena and the boys played with whoopee cushions and Slinkys from my childhood. Nana bought shark and snake hand puppets as gifts for them.

The line at the Santa Monica Pier ending point moved quickly. We were all impatient to walk out to the waves. 66 to Cali operator Ian Bowen filled out our certificates of completion.

Dipping our toes in the Pacific Ocean turned into an hour of the boys playing in the waves fully dressed.

Tears goodbye:  To mark the end of our trip, Nana and Papa Bob splurged on a whale spotting tour, the same one they took with two other grandsons 15 years earlier.

Nana and the boys were leaning against the railing as a fin whale exhaled. Robbie yelled: "There, it's there!" Tommy and I peeked through the railing as it came up again.

Robbie spoke with the naturalist, who pulled bottles of krill and whale poop from his pockets. Then my want-to-be oceanographer declared himself a whale expert. Tommy cozied up between Nana and Papa Bob, munching from a tub of popcorn.

As our journey across Route 66 came to an end, I began to understand the emotional pull it has had on so many Americans.

You never want your kids to cry. You do want them to love. 

Robbie and Tommy hugged Nana and Papa Bob goodbye. As we walked away, Robbie ran back to them in tears for another hug.

I didn't know until that moment that a hug was what I was hoping for from the trip.

I was always the emotional kid who sobbed when we left my granny and Aunt Susie behind in Amarillo. My dad would say it was proof I loved them.

 I told Robbie the same.

Humans looking for space aliens? Who knew? Let's write about how aliens might see human beings!

Neil deGrasse Tyson: Give Us the Aliens

Echo essay published in The New York Times

Ever since childhood I’ve wanted to be abducted by aliens. 

Now, as a professional astrophysicist armed with the knowledge of the size, age and composition of the cosmos, I know that nothing prevents any of us from imagining a universe teeming with life.

So the impending release of U.S. government files on aliens and U.F.O.s is a good thing, even if it feels like a distraction from other important files we’ve all been waiting to be disclosed. I expect the alien files will be anticlimactic. After a parade of alien insiders and whistle-blowers testified under oath to Congress in 2023, 2024 and 2025, what’s left to learn?

Personally, I’d be delighted if the files were accompanied by an actual alien. Alive or dead or undead. Preferably alive. Is that too much to ask for?

The whistle-blowers have already told us about the crashed flying saucers, extraterrestrial bodies and alien technology in our possession — hidden in undisclosed places. Not only that, but secret files have been declassified before. A 2017 headline in this newspaper was unambiguous: “Glowing Auras and ‘Black Money’: The Pentagon’s Mysterious U.F.O. Program.” And who could forget the Air Force’s Project Blue Book, which studied more than 12,000 U.F.O. sightings from 1952, until the project was terminated in 1969, with the goal of assessing threats to national security.

What’s clear, however, is that if an authentic alien walked out of the halls of Congress, nobody would ever again have to ask if you “believe” in aliens, just as nobody questions the existence of elephants. An alien of the alien files could become the literal elephant in the room.

Without good evidence of what actual aliens look like, we’re stuck imagining them. And imagine them we do. IMDb, an online database about entertainment, lists hundreds upon hundreds of films, TV shows, video games and documentaries about aliens — both friendly and evil. Mostly evil.

Disappointingly, in nearly all these portrayals, these aliens look a lot like us. They’re humanoid, with a head, two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a neck, shoulders, a torso, arms, fingers and legs. Remember that most life on Earth, with which we have DNA in common, looks nothing like us or any vertebrate animal. So we should expect aliens with no DNA in common — or no DNA at all — to look at least as different from humans as humans and other life-forms on Earth (like jellyfish or termites) look different from each other.

The only thing that would shock me about a living, declassified alien is if most Hollywood depictions ended up being right, violating everything we know about biodiversity on Earth and across the universe.

We care a lot about what aliens look like, but we don’t pay nearly enough attention to what we might look like to them. If an alien emissary landed in Los Angeles, for example, its first impression might be that Earth’s dominant life-form is the automobile. 🚗

Indeed, the congested city is heavily crisscrossed by major freeways, many of them 12 lanes wide. People line up in their cars on slow lines to obtain fast food handed through a window. They consume the food while still seated, never exiting their vehicles. Some of the larger life-forms on the freeway carry multiple automobiles within them. To the aliens, these car haulers are surely pregnant.

Assuming on arrival that the alien knew we were human, it would probably want to meet the person in charge. Who exactly would that be? The president? The prime minister? The pope? Or would it be a multibillionaire or captain of industry? Not knowing anything in advance about human civilization, but picking up clues from our cultural norms before arrival from leaked radio waves, an alien might instead expect to meet Ryan Gosling, Taylor Swift or Oprah Winfrey.

If we look more deeply into our own alien stories, there’s a persistent plotline that aliens are evil and want to kill us all. I suspect those fears are based not on what we believe about aliens but on what we know about humans.

In the history of our species, there’s no shortage of technologically advanced cultures that commit rampant violence against less-advanced ones. Within what we call civilization, humans oppress — or kill — one another over which creator of the universe they worship, or who they sleep with, or what side of an arbitrary line on Earth’s land masses they’re born, or how absorptive their skin is to sunlight, or what set of sounds comes out of their mouths.

Upon bearing witness to our irrational ways, any visiting alien that might have accompanied the release of the alien files surely long ago escaped back home to report, “There’s no sign of intelligent life on Earth!”

Let's write about how oligarchs are consuming publishing companies just because they can

 Opinion Guest Essay published in The New York Times

French Literature Is in an Uproar May 6, 2026

By Olivier Guez, a French writer who published five books at Grasset. His most recent book in translation is “The Disappearance of Josef Mengele.”

If you have never picked up a book in French, you might not ever have even heard of Grasset, and what it might mean to have its longtime chief executive Olivier Nora effectively guillotined by the rapacious right-wing industrialist Vincent Bolloré. 

And yet, in France, the news of Mr. Nora’s sudden departure from his post quickly flew beyond the borders of Parisian publishing and cultural elite circles. In the aftermath, over 200 writers — myself included — walked away from Grasset❗

This is not just a story about the French publishing industry. The evident struggle between Mr. Bolloré and Mr. Nora is a microcosm of the battle for cultural control that is taking place globally between the wealthy new right and the cultural old guard. Think Jeff Bezos and The Washington Post, Rupert Murdoch and Fox News. The abrupt change in leadership at Grasset, too, is a case study in the way members of the increasingly powerful ultra wealthy treat those who don’t think or see the world as they do.

A publishing house is not meant to be a propaganda machine. It is a place where conflict, doubt and nuance can, and should, coexist. Publishing houses are a hallmark of free and open societies: the nurturing and production of literature that explores the follies and the potential of the human condition.

Under the leadership of Mr. Nora, Grasset was the best of this ideal. The works of unapologetic feminist writers were placed on the shelf next to old-guard chauvinists, pro-Palestinian authors next to Zionists, male priests next to women rabbis, up-and-comers next to baby boomers, powerful people next to anti-establishment protesters. Grasset’s authors rarely agreed on much, but as the letter of protest we signed said, we have had — and still have — a common enemy: authoritarianism.

Grasset was just a tiny corner of the Bolloré financial empire. Nevertheless, losing Mr. Nora’s leadership is a sign of disdain among the powerful for a world of the recent past, one in which the public still accepted and cultivated contradictions, political complications, even conflict. It was not necessarily an enormously profitable world, but one where political opposites respected those who did not think alike, where knowledge itself garnered respect.

Mr. Nora, like the institution he led, was open and attentive to other people’s ideas. His weakness, if there was one, was immutable: his pedigree, which made him an easy target for the far right. 

Indeed, Mr. Nora is almost a caricature of the Parisian intellectual elite — his father was a political adviser to several major figures in French politics, and his uncle, Pierre Nora, was a longtime editor at another publishing house, Gallimard. Under Mr. Nora, Grasset maintained a pluralistic editorial policy.

Mr. Bolloré, by contrast, is the owner of a vast industrial conglomerate that has interests ranging from oil pipelines and energy storage to electric buses. 

Over the past several years, Mr. Bolloré has also been building a cultural empire, buying newspapers, radio stations, television channels and publishing houses. He acquired Grasset three years ago. 

As he picked up these levers of cultural power, he became editor, producer and distributor all at once. He is also, not incidentally, an extremely conservative Catholic. He has not only repeatedly brought outlets he has bought to heel by pushing the departure of people in important positions, replacing them with leaders apparently more loyal to him and his values. He has also leveraged his outlets to propagate fear and disseminate conspiracy theories about a decayed and decadent West, a Europe under threat from foreigners and egocentric old elites.

But Mr. Bolloré is, above all, a businessman: His cultural crusade is a very efficient moneymaker. His 24-hour news channel CNews — a kind of French Fox News — is the most popular news channel in France. Over the last two years, Mr. Bolloré also transformed Fayard, another historic French publishing house, into a largely far-right propaganda machine. 

Some of the most prominent figures of the French far right are now published by Fayard, including Jordan Bardella, the leader of the Rassemblement National, formerly the Front National. The party is leading the polls for next year’s presidential elections.

We are opening our eyes rather late in France to the efforts of the right to assume cultural control, to determine the words we consume, the discourse in which we partake. The message of authoritarians everywhere is the same: Whoever isn’t with me is against me, and whoever won’t follow me will get the boot. The boss is always right, so he steamrolls his way through and imposes his worldview. He exerts his power. He demands absolute loyalty from his subordinates. The plutocrats have become oligarchs.

We are opening our eyes rather late in France to the efforts of the right to assume cultural control, to determine the words we consume, the discourse in which we partake. The message of authoritarians everywhere is the same: Whoever isn’t with me is against me, and whoever won’t follow me will get the boot. The boss is always right, so he steamrolls his way through and imposes his worldview. He exerts his power. He demands absolute loyalty from his subordinates. The plutocrats have become oligarchs.

Mr. Nora’s departure was not enough. Mr. Bolloré also went on to smear the authors of Grasset who signed the letter. To do so he wrote an essay in his own newspaper — Le Journal du Dimanche — where he disdainfully referred to them as the “small caste that believes itself above everything and everyone, and that co-opts and supports itself.” He claimed to differ on the publication schedule for a book by the French-Algerian author Boualem Sansal set by Mr. Nora, and on the scale of the longtime C.E.O.’s salary. And then he fashioned himself, a billionaire, as the defender of the millions of French who struggle to make ends meet.

Most writers in France are barely eking out a living; people here spend less and less time reading, same as everywhere else. Few authors live off their writing income and, apart from rare exceptions, they do not belong to the global elite.

Not so very long ago, men like Mr. Bolloré paid to achieve a veneer of culture and cultivated a certain notion of beauty: The barons of the Gilded Age endowed America with incredible cultural institutions. Recently, business tycoons François Pinault and Bernard Arnault built in Paris magnificent art collections now open to the public.

Now these pretenses are all but obsolete: The wolf no longer has to disguise himself as the grandmother to get his way. Oligarchs are no longer staying hidden. They are flaunting their power, destroying, exploiting, intimidating and getting richer than any group of people in human history. They show utter disregard for the world, and complete impunity. They believe they are invincible.

The Grasset affair is a French story, and Mr. Nora is just one man. But it is a warning to us all, to the democratic peoples of every country. It shows the threats that are in motion in our societies. 

Although our democracies are still open, for now. But for how much longer❓🔹

Let's write about Donald Trump's obsession with Catholic popes

Peace on Earth Department. published in the New Yorker magazine by Jane Bua:  Other pople who Donald Trump might have liked better than His Holiness Pope 

Donald Trump thinks Pope Leo XIV is "soft on crime". Meet some real tough-guy Pontiffs who might have fit the bill.

The other day, Donald Trump took to his Truth (Fake ❗)Social to complain that Pope Leo XIV, the new Supreme Pontiff from Chicago, has been “weak on crime.” The Pope preaches peace too much, Donald Trump said, which “does not sit well with me.” There have been two hundred and sixty-seven Popes in the history of Popedom; would any of them have measured up to the Trumpian's evil standards❓

Pope Urban VI, who Poped from 1378 to 1389, was as tough as they come. He was so tough that he arrested half a dozen cardinals, confined them in an old cistern, and tortured them, after hearing a rumor that they were plotting to get rid of him. (As Trump once said, “When somebody challenges you unfairly, fight back.”) Only one cardinal survived—smells like a snitch—and Urban was apparently disappointed by how little the other captive cardinals had screamed.

(Yikes❗😰) As far as tough guys go, Pope Stephen VI (896-97) is up there, too. Like many strong leaders, he hated his predecessor, Formosus. In the mid-890s, Formosus supported King Arnulf, the leader of the Franks, in his invasion of Italy, then crowned Arnulf Roman Emperor—despite there already being a Roman Emperor. Even after Formosus died, Stephen VI, his replacement, thought that the dead Pope hadn’t been sufficiently punished for this betrayal, so he exhumed Formosus’ body, dressed it up “Weekend at Bernie’s” style, and put it on trial. Formosus’ corpse was found guilty of violating papal law. It was also accused of perjury, as many men—dead, or President—have been. Perhaps Formosus was just the victim of a witch hunt.

Pope Alexander VI (1492-1503) is another Pontiff who might have passed muster with Trump. Much like Donald Trump, he was a family man and a nepo baby. His uncle had been Pope and had personally made Alexander a cardinal. Then, when Alexander ascended to the papacy, he made at least nine relatives cardinals. He knew how to keep his family close—to God, of course. Even more up Trump’s alley, Alexander VI was a businessman. During his papal candidacy, he supposedly promised a rival cardinal multiple mules laden with bags of silver in exchange for supporting his bid. (“Leverage,” Trump has remarked. “Don’t make deals without it.”) It is said that, in 1501, Pope Alexander’s son Cesare, born of his chief mistress, Vannozza (“I’ve had them all, secretly, the world’s biggest names,” Trump once wrote, of his romantic partners), threw a party that became known as the Banquet of Chestnuts. Fifty young courtesans attended, according to a journal entry from the time, “at first in their garments, then naked.” Then “chestnuts were strewn around, which the naked courtesans picked up, creeping on hands and knees between the chandeliers.” Trump loves a nice chandelier. His new four-hundred-million-dollar East Wing ballroom was supposed to have several gold ones, but a very weak judge has blocked construction.

Pope Benedict IX might have caught Donald Trump's evil fancy. At one point, he accepted a pretty sum to abdicate the papacy—the art of the deal. Benedict is also the only Pope in history to hold the office three times, so there’s a good chance he’s already on the President’s radar.

We also shouldn’t forget about Chief Pope, the L.A.P.D. (Los Angeles Police Department)  officer from “The Closer,” who’s not technically a Pope (or a real person) but is definitely tough. As is Olivia Pope, the D.C. fixer from “Scandal,” whom the show describes as a “gladiator in a suit.” It would have been better if she were an actual gladiator Pope, but you can’t have everything.

Or perhaps Donald Trump would have been satisfied enough with Peter, one of Jesus’ original twelve apostles, whom many consider to be the first Pope.  Saint Peter is famous for denying ever knowing Jesus. Trump, too, has denied association with people whose names start with “J.” There’s nothing tougher than that. Then again, the Bible says that as soon as Peter denied Christ, he “wept bitterly” in remorse, which is decidedly weak. Everyone knows real Popes don’t cry. ♦

Let's write about ethical dilemmas caused by legalizing physician assisted suicide and Medical Aid in Dying

The alternative to  Physician Assisted Suicide (PAS) and Medical Aid in Dying (MAiD) is hospice care.

Echo report by Chadwick Moore, senior reporter, for the New York Post interviewed disability advocate Heather Hancock who said, "Keep your ears and eyes open, especially if you have a disability or mental illness, or are in any way considered a disadvantaged or non-contributing member of society. Those are the people that are targeted. [Assisted suicide] is an effective way to get rid of those they deem draining the healthcare system. It’s not compassionate."❗😒😞😩😧😟😢

“'I was terrified. I couldn’t believe what was happening. They talked to me like I was putting a dog down', Fisher, 71, told The Post from her home in Ontario, Canada"

Echo report published by the New York Post and the Patients Rights

Debbie Fisher is advising New Yorkers to prepare their elderly relatives ahead of the state legalizing Physician Assisted Suicide (PAS) this summer.

The Canadian’s elderly mother, Rita Busby, came dangerously close to being euthanized over a single sentence.

Her mom, who was active and independent in spite of her 93 years, ended up in the hospital after accidentally overdosing on a drug she was prescribed. Drowsy and not thinking straight, Busby had made an offhand comment to one of the nurses that she “wanted to die.” Hospital workers took her at her word.

Next, a Canadian government psychologist pulled Fisher aside to let her know they were preparing to euthanize her mother, a devout Catholic and lifelong Blue Jays fan.

Fortunately,  Fisher and her mom were prepared, as Busby had signed over Power of Attorney to her daughter. Now she and others in Canada — which legalized PAS a decade ago — are warning the Empire State of the “slippery slope” into a culture of coercive death which may be headed their way.

“My mom wanted to die, she didn’t want to be killed!” Fisher said. “If I hadn’t been there, and she hadn’t signed over Power of Attorney, who knows what would have happened”

It was a narrow escape and Rita lived for six more months — during that time she went bowling and to baseball games, attended a family reunion and mended strained relationships before dying naturally at home in 2019. 💙🦋

“People don’t understand there’s a lot of things that go on behind the scenes [in hospitals] when there’s no one there to protect them,” said Fisher.

In the last ten years, an estimated 100,000 Canadians have been euthanized by their government 😟— about one in 20 deaths in the country in 2024, alone. (Maine Writer, it is statistically impossible for this number of assisted suicide to have been 100 percent legitimate. My strong suspicion is that a small percentage were motivated by personal ambitions related to the challenges caused by caring for a family member or for inheritance.)

“You just opened Pandora’s Box and the slippery slope will get very steep very fast,” Heather Hancock, 58, of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan and who suffers from cerebral palsy, told The Post.

She now carries a laminated “do not euthanize” card wherever she goes.

“This is eugenics and this is genocide against the [disadvantaged],” she claimed.

Hancock is no stranger to death-pushers. She’s lost count of the number of times Canadian doctors have tried to coerce her into killing herself, she claimed, through Medical Assistance in Dying, or MAiD —the title given to their PAS program.

During one hospital visit, “the nurse on my ward looked at me and said, ‘You really should consider MAiD. You’re not living. You’re just existing,” she recalled to The Post.

She now carries a laminated “do not euthanize” card wherever she goes.

Hancock warned certain classes of New Yorkers may have to be vigilant going into heath care facilities. “Keep your ears and eyes open, especially if you have a disability or mental illness or are in any way considered a disadvantaged or non-contributing member of society. Those are the people that are targeted,” she said.
“[PAS] is an effective way to get rid of those they deem draining the healthcare system. It’s not compassionate.”
Major US medical groups strongly condemn PAS, including the American Medical Association, which warns in its code of ethics, “Physician-assisted suicide is fundamentally incompatible with the physician’s role as healer, would be difficult or impossible to control, and would pose serious societal risks.”
Fourteen additional states are considering legalizing PAS this year.

So far, no state has legalized euthanasia — the form of assisted suicide where a medical professional administers the lethal agent rather than being prescribed a deadly drug the patient takes on their own.

Between 30 and 50 percent of patients prescribed the killing concoction don’t end up taking it, studies show, whereas booking a euthanasia appointment has a much higher kill rate. 

Virtually all assisted suicides in Canada are now carried out by euthanasia.

“It makes it feel more like a medical act. People feel more obligated to it because, of course, the doctor has to schedule it,” Alex Schadenberg, executive director of Canada’s Euthanasia Prevention Network, an advocacy group, told The Post.

Canada, which has a socialized medical system, will formal

ly legalize euthanasia for mental health as the sole underlying condition in 2027, if legal challenges against the expansion are unsuccessful.

“It could be really touchy for someone in New York if they don’t have the gold standard in health insurance and they develop some kind of disability,” said Schadenberg.

“In Canada we have serious funding problems in our healthcare system, hospitals are running deficits. They would never say it to you, but clearly dead people don’t cost money.”

“You’ve had cases of people who are homeless asking to be approved for euthanasia,” he added, which was reported on in 2024.

Health Canada told The Post: “Canada’s medical assistance in dying law seeks to respect personal autonomy for those seeking access to MAID, while at the same time protecting vulnerable people and the equality rights of all Canadians. MAID is a complex and deeply personal issue. “The Government of Canada is committed to ensuring our laws reflect Canadians’ needs, protect those who may be vulnerable, and support autonomy and freedom of choice.”
Studies show overall suicide rates increase when PAS becomes legalized, going up by 10.5 percent in Canada since PAS was broadened in 2021. In Europe the numbers are more staggering: suicides increased by 18.5 percent — and raised by nearly 40 percent in women — among nine countries where PAS is permitted, according to a 2022 study.
One case in Spain caught the attention of the White House this month, which has demanded a probe into the euthanization of 25-year-old gang rape victim Noelia Castillo, who had been confined to a wheelchair since 2022, when she attempted suicide by jumping from a fifth-floor building.

“[PAS] demystifies the issue of suicide. It takes away the whole concept that suicide is not the right way to go,” said Schadenberg.

New York’s law, set to take effect on August 4, requires patients must be a New York resident, at least 18 years old, mentally capable of making health decisions, and diagnosed with a terminal illness with six months or less to live. (Maine Writer: Many people who are diagnosed with a terminal illness will outlive their 6 months prognosis.)

There is a mandatory five-day waiting period between the time a suicide drug is prescribed and when it can be filled. The program is overseen by the Department of Health. (Maine Writer: There should be a subsidiary Department of Death in this organizational chart.)In 2021, Canada removed its mandatory ten-day waiting period and now desperate Canadians can get same-day suicides.

Such was the case when an 80-year-old Ontario woman recovering from heart surgery (known as “Mrs. B” in an official report) requested palliative care and initially declined MAiD due to her religious beliefs. Nevertheless, her husband — experiencing caregiver burnout —contacted a MAiD referral service the same day; after two quick assessments, a third provider approved her, and she was euthanized later that evening, according to the report. (See my Maine Writer note above....)
States tend to follow Canada’s trend of loosening restrictions over time — but, so far, not to the same extremes.

Each state where PAS is legal reports increasing usage over time. Oregon, Washington, Vermont, Hawaii and Colorado have also removed residency requirements, resulting in grisly “death tourism,” while California was the first to shorten mandatory waiting times.
Liberal state California has overseen the most PAS deaths in the US with 4,287 between 2016 and 2023, with Oregon a close second.

“It changes medicine,” said Schadenberg. “People have to recognize the importance of being there with their loved ones in the hospital. In our culture, there are too many people going through difficult health conditions alone and that actually breeds the death idea.”

PAS also transforms the death industry. Entrepreneurial New Yorkers could soon follow the lead of Canadian funeral homes offering one-stop MAiD services.

In London, Ontario, A. Millard George Funeral Home converted a former casket showroom into a “Compassion Suite” where patients can die surrounded by family.
Quebec’s Complexe Funéraire du Haut-Richelieu similarly provides a dedicated space for the procedure, allowing loved ones to hand off the body immediately afterward.
Advocates for PAS argue it’s about bodily autonomy, dignity and independence.

“For New Yorkers nearing the end of life, what matters most is having access to the full spectrum of end‑of‑life care,” Francesca Triest, New York-New Jersey Campaign Manager for Compassion & Choices, which lobbied strongly for New York’s law, told The Post.

“The Medical Aid in Dying Act reinforces a fundamental principle: every individual deserves compassion and the autonomy to make personal decisions about their own body and their care at life’s end.”

But Fisher said that sends the wrong message to everyone else. “If it’s legal, it must be OK. That’s the mindset they’re in,” she said.
Adding: “My body, my choice and I’m just going to go to sleep and all my problems go away. But the families are left behind".
(Maine Writer: Families, elderly and disabled will be coerced into believing they have a duty to die. This "my body, my choice" slogan is propaganda. Frankly, is complete hypocrisy to use such a euphemism to gloss over the brutal finality of death by suicide.)
“It’s like a holocaust. It serves no purpose.”

Let's write about immersion immigrant dining experiences in a creative restaurant review

 Low didn't originally set out to become a restaurateur- he's a filmmaker by training....."

This Tables for Two review published in The New Yorker magazine, by Helen Rosner, and at this social media link here. (This review describes an immersion into creative immigrant ethnic dining...wish we could visit....I suppose a diner could enjoy a different experience every day for a month.)

(Love this descriptive excerpt:  "Kelang’s paratha isn’t a pizza, but it’s not not a pizza; it’s chewy, wheaty, savory, creamy, and fresh, with a bit of heat in the dal and a brightening zing of green from a tangle of herbs on top." -Haha, hmmm, so what's not not a pizza, anyway❓)

Kelang, is a Malaysian restaurant located in Greenpoint, part of a new crop of restaurants that celebrate the cultural synthesis of many immigrant groups that coexist in tight proximity to one another. This intermingling isn’t exactly a new phenomenon, but Kelang’s approach feels specific to this moment. The restaurant’s owner, Christopher Low, is an American-born son of Malaysian parents. He grew up in Brooklyn, eating his parents’ cooking in addition to the Haitian and Jamaican food of his neighbors and friends. Low brings this background into his cooking. “Call it the second-generation turn: the cooking of children whose palates belong not to their parents’ homelands but to the cities that they were raised in; cooks making food that doesn’t attempt to re-create someplace distant, in space or in memory, so much as to reflect their actual lives, which are hybrid and hyphenated, deeply rooted yet widely branching,” 

Helen Rosner writes: The best thing on the menu at Kelang, a Malaysian restaurant in Greenpoint that opened in December, is a puffy paratha on a bed of spiced red-lentil dal, topped with creamy Italian stracciatella cheese. Depending on who you are, where you’re from, and how rigid you are in your notions of gastronomic interpolation, this will strike you as either an absurd concept or a brilliant one.

Kelang is part of a new crop of restaurants that celebrate the cultural synthesis of many immigrant groups that coexist in tight proximity to one another, from the Southeast Asian-kissed Italian American joint JR & Son to the Southern-meets-Sichuan fried-chicken spot Pecking House.

What these places are doing isn’t “fusion” in the cynical sense, wherein a chef from one culture raids another for decorative elements. It’s something more personal, less calculated. Kelang’s paratha isn’t a pizza, but it’s not not a pizza (❓); it’s chewy, wheaty, savory, creamy, and fresh, with a bit of heat in the dal and a brightening zing of green from a tangle of herbs on top.
This intermingling isn’t exactly a new phenomenon (birria ramen❗ Pastrami burritos❗❓ Gumbo❗), but Kelang’s approach feels specific to this moment.

Call it the second-generation turn: the cooking of children whose palates belong not to their parents’ homelands but to the cities that they were raised in; cooks making food that doesn’t attempt to re-create someplace distant, in space or in memory, so much as to reflect their actual lives, which are hybrid and hyphenated, deeply rooted yet widely branching. Kelang’s owner, Christopher Low, is an American-born son of Malaysian parents. He grew up in Brooklyn, eating his parents’ cooking in addition to the Haitian and Jamaican food of his neighbors and friends.

In 2022, he, his parents, and his sister opened a restaurant, Hainan Chicken House, in Sunset Park, a counter-service spot named in celebration of a regional culinary export that’s hugely popular in Malaysia: poached chicken, fragrant with scallions and ginger, served with chicken-infused rice and sauces.
The restaurant became a minor sensation—the titular dish is terrific, silken and subtle and rich, but what most stood out was a rotating lineup of specials, mostly hawker-style Malaysian fare, particularly the food of Klang, his parents’ home town, on Malaysia’s western coast.

At Kelang (the restaurant is named for an archaic spelling of the city’s name), those dishes are brought to the fore and woven with flavors from Low’s life in Brooklyn. There’s the paratha, of course, with its playful Neapolitan flourishes, but also a rendang, a Malaysian style of curry in which the sauce simmers down to almost a rich glaze, here made with tender shreds of oxtail—smoked first, Caribbean style. It’s served alongside rice cooked with mushrooms and herbs, a clever mashup of Malaysian nasi ulam and Haitian djon djon (small black edible mushrooms).

Oxtail rendang, a mix of Malaysian and Caribbean staples.

Low isn’t the first to do a curry-chicken potpie, (❓- hmmm, interesting....😉😋) but his version is rich and warm, with airy, shattery pastry reminiscent of roti, flaky and slick with butter. (Note:  I suppose butter improves nearly all unfamiliar flavors....)

Not all dishes on the menu make you play a game of spot-the-references; some dishes are just terrific for terrific’s sake. Take, for instance, the clay-pot bak kut teh, featuring big hunks of pork (belly, trotter, rib) bobbling around in an intense, herbal broth in which they’ve braised for ages, or the “moonlight kway teow,” a stir-fried dish of wide rice noodles that are near-black with dark soy sauce, with a yellow orb of egg yolk in the center; its flavor is sultry and craggy from smoked clams and wok hei. Rojak, a spicy-savory fruit salad that’s a signature Malaysian dish, is made with seasonal fruit (guava and pineapple, among others, on my visits), plus crunchy cucumbers tossed in a gorgeous dressing tangy with fermented shrimp paste. Hainanese chicken—the dish that started it all—is available at dinner, and is impeccable: a steamy, silky half bird, foot coquettishly still attached, alongside a cluster of bowls containing sauces, rice, and a broth that strikes the ideal midpoint between fussy from-scratch freshness and bouillon nostalgia. I especially loved a dish of abacus seeds—chewy little dumplings made from taro, which the menu cheekily identifies as “gnocchi,” sauteed with smoked mushrooms and fiery chiles.

Low didn’t originally set out to become a restaurateur—he’s a filmmaker by training, and he’s cited the works of Wong Kar Wai as a primary influence on the interior design of Kelang. The space, previously a medical office, is boxy, with a certain high-ceilinged sterility, but Low has staged it like a movie set to conjure a lush, melancholy romanticism, with deep-red banquettes, tropical vines, gilt-edged mirrors, and, at the U-shaped bar, bent-bamboo chairs, with a boudoir-pink fringe. If the low, blushing lighting doesn’t get you in the mood for love, maybe a drink will help: a Martini dirtied up with a splash of fish sauce, a Negroni with notes of cherry blossom and lemongrass, or a Longsan Lahhh, a note-perfect non-alcoholic cocktail with smoky tea, fruit juice, and a bit of chile-pepper heat. 

Service, on my visits, was a bit spacey, but it’s been tightening up; the tone of the place seems to be in progress, too, oscillating between that of a neighborhood joint, an amorous date-night nook, and a sceney hot spot. But that sort of multiplicity plays well here: Kelang is a little bit of many things, all wrapped up together, in a way that totally works. ♦

P.S. from Maine Writer, I don't think spell check can keep pace with the variety of words in this Tables for Two article.  

Let's write about the fun of reading children's books again!

I have read "Charlotte's Web" by .E.B. White at least three times. 

I read it aloud to my two sons when we were in transit living in my sister's apartment in Winnetka, Illinois, and they had not yet been enrolled in the elementary school. One time, I read an excerpt when it was my turn to give an inspirational moment at our weekly Rotary meeting. I started to cry when I read Charlotte's goodbye to Wilber.

Why adults should read more children’s books an essay published in the Boston Globe by Zach Przystup.

You’re never too old to believe in magic. Zach Przystup is the author of the Substack newsletter "Ask Your Father", where he writes about parenting, family life, sports, and technology.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Someday you’ll be old enough to read fairy tales again.” It looks like I’ve reached that day.

I just turned 40, and over the past couple of years I’ve read some 20 children’s novels by the likes of Daniel Nayeri, Roald Dahl, Dave Eggers, Katherine Rundell, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Louis Sachar.

The binge wasn’t intentional. It started with introducing my old favorites to my first- and third-grade boys.

I got curious about what’s out there for kids today, and then I was enjoying myself so much that I got around to some of the classics I had never read, like “The Hobbit” and “The Chronicles of Narnia.” Some of these books were among the best I had read in recent memory, or ever, really. 

And it sure is nice to be able to finish something in a few days.

That’s rarely the case with adult fiction. With its penchant for weighty drama — murder, betrayals, affairs — it all can get, well, a little depressing.

The thing is, children’s literature also ponders the big questions — how to deal with unfairness, what makes a good life, and what happens after we die — but usually in a way that’s inspiring and less long-winded. As my favorite writing professor would charge: “Get to the pith!” (IOW, get inside the issues.)

Children’s novels excel at getting to the pith. Just consider: You’re wrongly thrown into a juvenile detention center and ordered to dig holes in the scorching sun alongside a ragtag group of youth vandals. What’s your next move? — “Holes,” Louis Sachar. A strange girl parachutes in from a magical portal and says she needs your help to save her world. Do you go? — “Impossible Creatures,” Katherine Rundell. You’re a valued member of an island’s animal community (you’re a wild dog), but one day that community changes forever. Do you stick it out or leave behind everything you’ve ever known? — “The Eyes and the Impossible,” Dave Eggers.

Children’s books also remind us of an essential truth: The magic, adventure, and boundless possibilities that we naturally grasped as kids are all still out there.

We badly need this reminder because as we get jobs, start paying mortgages, and get bulldozed by domestic responsibilities, the magic tends to die.

That’s why we need “James and the Giant Peach.” A good children’s yarn chips away at our jaded exteriors by helping us to look at the world the way we used to as kids, with a sense of wonder, awe, discovery, and playfulness that are all worthy of the life we’ve been given. They remind us of who we were and ask whether we still believe in the things we used to.

We’re a grown and grizzled Peter Pan; these books take us back to Neverland.

After reading “Holes,” I visited my parents at my childhood home. As I sat playing with my boys in the front yard, I suddenly thought to show them the dirt patch under the great oak tree where I used to dig for gems as a little boy. They eagerly fetched a spade, started digging, and found all kinds of treasure. It was a full-circle moment of play and discovery inspired by an excellent children’s novel — an excellent novel, period.

The morning commute, the endless dishes and laundry and schedule shuffling — they aren’t going anywhere. But, if we remember how to look, we can recognize that our daily lives are still shot through with plenty of magic. Can anyone who has visited a national park deny that fantastical realms exist❓ 

Can anyone who has a child deny that wondrous creatures exist❓ 

I think that’s what C.S. Lewis was getting at.

Here’s some parting advice from Roald Dahl: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” Children’s books invite us to read and believe again. Who knows what we’ll find❓