I can’t believe I missed it yesterday — it’s my favorite season. Maybe it was the fact that the thermometer hit 95 degrees that had me confused. But here it is, just a day late.

I can still smell the crisp, cool New England air of my childhood, when we’d rake the leaves into a big pile, then jump into them and have to rake them up all over again. Finally our father would scoop them into the burn barrel and set them afire. It was legal then, before all of today’s industrial pollution.

So many things we were privileged to know, that today’s kids never will. We were the lucky ones.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/23/24

I can’t imagine. But in people like Vladimir Kara-Murza, dedication sometimes overrides good sense.

On August 1st of this year, he was released, along with fifteen other prisoners, from a Russian prison camp where he was serving a 25-year sentence for high treason. He had been detained in April of 2022, tried and convicted a year later, and sent to maximum security prison IK-6, where he was held — in deteriorating health — in solitary confinement.

Finally being moved to the penal colony’s hospital, he believed he was being taken out to be executed. Instead, he next found himself on a plane to Turkey, where he learned that he was part of a multi-nation spy swap that included Americans Evan Gershkovich, Alsu Kurmasheva, and Paul Whelan.

Like the others, all he had done — what was said to constitute treason in Russia — was to verbally oppose the regime of Vladimir Putin.

A dual British-Russian citizen, Kara-Murza was now free to return to his family and a normal life. But in an interview this week with BBC’s Laura Kuenssberg, he told the following story:

“You know, when our plane was taking off from Vnukovo airport in Moscow en route to Ankara on 1 August, the FSB officer who was my personal escort sitting next to me turned to me and said, ‘Look out the window, this is the last time you’re seeing your motherland.’

“And I just laughed in his face, and I said, ‘Look, man, I am a historian, I don’t just think, I don’t just believe, I know that I’ll be back home in Russia, and it’s going to happen much sooner than you can imagine.’” [Laura Kuenssberg, BBC, September 21, 2024.]

I am not personally acquainted with Vladimir Kara-Murza; but it is quite obvious that this is not the sort of thing he would joke about, least of all under the conditions of that momentous day.

So what does he have in mind? Perhaps his full interview will reveal more; or perhaps he doesn’t have a definite plan yet. But for an individual who has gone through — no, been put through — what he has in the last two and a half years by the leader of his native country, and to still have the desire to return for whatever reason . . . well, that is just too difficult for me to fathom.

He is obviously driven by some internal force stronger than any fear for his own safety. Is it love of one’s motherland? Or of its people? A desire to fight for the future of those people, to bring freedom at last to a nation that has only had the most teasing taste of it before once again losing it to yet another tyrannical dictator?

Whatever it is, Vladimir Kara-Murza — having survived those two-plus years in hell — is clearly a man of strength and determination. I fear for him; at the same time have the greatest respect for him; and cannot wait to see what the next chapter of his life will bring.

Best of luck, Vladimir Vladimirovich.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/23/24

I can only repeat what I’ve said before:

You are loved — and always will be — beyond measure.

Love and a thousand xoxo,
Nana

All you Midsomer Murders fans, pay attention: your favorite stories of mayhem, murder, incest, bigamy, polygamy, kidnapping, theft, lying, cheating, infidelity, corruption, back-stabbing, double-dealing, and bestiality . . . nope, haven’t actually seen that last one . . . but all the others turn out not to be so implausible after all. Just ask the 500 residents of the idyllic little village of Shiptonthorpe in East Yorkshire.

Or should I say, “formerly idyllic”? It seems that someone — or perhaps a number of someones — has (or have) been sending “vulgar” mail, terrorizing the recipients and turning Shiptonthorpe into a “village of poison,” according to residents. [Sarah-May Buccieri, BBC News, September 21, 2024.]

It has been going on for the past two years, and although Humberside Police have “carried out inquiries into some of the incidents,” [id.], the culprit — let’s assume it’s just one person — has yet to be identified. The letters — described as “personal, obscene and targeted” — just keep on coming.

One such recipient — identified only as Sophie, though not her real name — received a letter “ . . . accusing me of what you could call being a loose woman. It said the only way I would ever get anywhere within politics would be if I was to perform unspeakable things to men.” The letter further suggested she should be “turned out on the Beverley Westwood pasture with the rest of the cows.” [Id.]

Another resident, identified as Jason, said he had not received any letters, but that “A cloud of vitriol has fallen over Shiptonthorpe. It is a wonderful village with wonderful people, but someone has brought poison to this village.” [Id.]

And yet another letter — actually seen by the BBC — told the recipient, “I hope cancer finds you.” [Id.]

Now, that’s pretty awful.

On an episode of Midsomer Murders, this hate campaign would long since have resulted in, not one, but a series of grisly murders. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby (either one) and his Detective Sergeant du jour would ultimately trace the motive back to a generations-old affair between someone’s grandmother and someone else’s estate manager, or an incestuous relationship resulting in a young lesbian’s grandfather also being her father (an actual plot).

Happily, that has not happened in Shiptonthorpe, which is a very good thing, not least because there is no real-life DCI Barnaby to solve the case.

However, I am reminded of an episode of an old American series, Murder, She Wrote, starring British actress Angela Lansbury as J.B. Fletcher, an American mystery novelist whose mere presence anywhere in the world seems to precipitate someone’s mysterious death. She then helps the police — themselves frequently clueless — solve the crimes. And in the particular segment I mentioned, which took place in her little (fictitious) home town of Cabot Cove, Maine, people began receiving nasty letters that set neighbor against neighbor. Jessica (J.B.), of course, figured it out, and everyone hugged it out and lived happily ever after. Well, except the murder victims.

Perhaps what Shiptonthorpe needs is its own J.B. Fletcher. In any event, I wish them luck in unmasking the culprit. It’s probably the illegitimate child of the wealthy industrialist who had an affair with the pub owner’s daughter back in the 1940s . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/22/24

We keep hearing it from Vladimir Putin . . . and from Dmitry Medvedev . . . and Sergey Lavrov . . . and mad scientist Sergei Karaganov . . . and even madder philosopher Aleksandr Dugin . . . not to mention the irrepressible Kremlin spokesman, Dmitry Peskov:

It’s the none-too-subtle threat of a nuclear response if we dare to displease the man in the Kremlin.

And we think it all sounds too familiar because we keep hearing it, almost daily, from so many different voices — coming at us from all sides like a too-loud movie soundtrack in one of those shopping mall multiplex theaters.

But for those of us who have been around for a while, that’s not the only reason for the familiarity. Recognize this guy? . . .

Remember his famous quote? . . .

“We will bury you!”

For those of you under the age of 80 — which would undoubtedly be most of you — a little historical context might be in order:

On November 18, 1956, Khrushchev — then First Secretary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) — was addressing a gathering of Western ambassadors at the Polish Embassy in Moscow. Part of his speech (as translated into English by his personal interpreter, Viktor Sukhodrev) has been quoted as follows:

“About the capitalist states, it doesn’t depend on you whether or not we exist. If you don’t like us, don’t accept our invitations, and don’t invite us to come to see you. Whether you like it or not, history is on our side. We will bury you!” [Wikipedia]

Reportedly, the representatives from twelve NATO nations and Israel stood up and left the room.

Nearly 70 years later, the precise meaning of those words — “We will bury you” — is still being debated. Was it a threat of a nuclear attack? That was the most commonly accepted interpretation . . . as it is today, when considering the words of Putin and his henchmen.

*. *. *

And my point is . . . ?

Simply, that, in the sphere of international relations, some things never seem to change. After nearly 70 years, only the names on the doors are different.

You’d think we’d have learned by now.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/22/24

On the one hand, you’ve got Vladimir Putin telling the working women of Russia that they need to start sacrificing their free time — their lunch breaks at work — in order to sneak off to a specially-designated area with their husbands to, as he puts it, procreate . . . make more babies . . . lots and lots of babies . . . for the benefit of Mother Russia, whose birth rate has dropped precipitously in recent years.

While on the other hand, you have 70,000-plus Russians — mostly young men — who have been killed since February 24, 2022, fighting Putin’s war of attrition in Ukraine. Young men who would likely have been responsible for bringing quite a few new lives into the world had they been at home with their wives and sweethearts where they belonged, instead of being killed on a foreign battlefield.

You do the math.

And it turns out that now, for the first time, volunteer enlistees — not professional soldiers — constitute the majority of those killed in that war since its inception: volunteers who were enticed by higher pay and signing bonuses to do a job for which they were not qualified or properly trained. [Olga Ivshina, BBC, September 19, 2024.]

The BBC has gone to great lengths to verify the numbers and identities of the casualties, which thus far total some 70,112 . . . though the actual count is believed to be considerably higher, as some families do not share details publicly, and some information was not available to the BBC investigators. [Id.]

And now — aside from the absolute horror of the loss of those tens of thousands of young lives in Ukraine — young couples back home in Russia are being told that they must make up the losses by cranking out babies they may not want or be able to afford. And the women, of course, will be expected to do double duty as working mothers of multiple children . . . all for the sake of Putin’s “special military operation.”

For once, I have no words . . .

Brendochka
9/22/24

Not much is known about about the Heyer family as yet, other than the fact that they are from somewhere in New York and have made the incomprehensible (to me, at least) decision to move to Russia. They are the U.S. equivalent of the Canadian Feenstra family . . . just with fewer children.

And once more — as I did when first writing about the Feenstras — I have to ask:

“Don’t you people read the news?!!”

Like their Canadian doppelgängers, they are an ultra-conservative Christian family seeking their version of Nirvana, that is, a land of what they consider to be “traditional moral and family values” — a place that exists only in their dreams.

So they decided that place must be Russia.

Knowing nothing of their background, I can’t fathom what brought Leo and his wife Chantel to this conclusion. But from their belief that Russia must be the land of their dreams, I suspect that they are, at the very least, unworldly and undereducated as to the realities of life. And judging solely from their photograph above, taken as they received their temporary Russian residency permits, I would say that Leo looks optimistic; Chantel looks a little nervous; and the three boys look stoned . . . oh, sorry . . . stunned. As with the eight Feenstra children, their futures are of the greatest concern to me.

Leo Heyer’s comment for the video published by the Russian Interior Ministry was simply: “I feel like I’ve been put on an ark of safety for my family. The person I want to thank is President Vladimir Putin for allowing Russia to become a good place for families in this world climate.”

And Chantel added: “In a small way, it feels as if I just got married to Russia.”

Whoever wrote their script has a real future with the Russian equivalent of Hallmark.

*. *. *

Needless to say, Russia’s Interior Ministry did not overlook the propaganda value of the American family’s arrival. Their spokeswoman, Irina Volk, was cited by the official Russian news agency TASS as saying that the Heyers’ decision to move to Russia was the result of their “distaste for the dissolution of traditional moral and family values in American society, as well as the poor education system. The adult members of the family were worried about the future of their children.” [TASS, August 15, 2024.]

According to TASS, she stated: “Another American family has chosen to relocate to our country and live here. My colleagues from the Moscow Region’s branch of the Russian Interior Ministry issued certificates of temporary asylum on the territory of Russia to the Heyer’s [sic] and their children. In the future, Leo and Chantel plan to get Russian citizenship, because they know that in our country traditional values are protected by the state. They say it is safer here, the level of education is better, large families are supported.” [Id.]

The Feenstras at least have a YouTube channel through which they are allowed to keep in touch with the outside world. I hope we will also be kept informed of the Heyers’ progress as they navigate the muddy waters of life in Russia. In the meantime, I wish them . . .

Vsevo dobrovo. All the best.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/22/24

They say every dream has a meaning, and not necessarily an obvious one. I’m not sure I want to know what mine mean . . . they’re that weird.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know I write a lot about Russia, both past and present. (I haven’t learned to forecast the future yet.) So it would seem natural for me to dream about the time I spent there years ago, or the people I knew in Moscow back in the ‘90s, or being chased by Vladimir Putin through the dark forest or across a snowy tundra. But I don’t.

I do dream a lot about Nazis, though. Evil-looking, gun-toting, goose-stepping, 1940s Gestapo types, who for some reason are pursuing me from nook to cranny, hell bent on killing me. And each time I think I’ve found a good hiding place, here they come again. They never do catch me, but can anyone tell me what they’re doing in my dreams? Could it simply be a craving for sauerbraten?

Happily, the Nazis don’t visit often. But I do rack up a lot of miles while I’m sleeping — driving and driving and driving. A lot of the time I’m searching for the right road (okay, that one’s pretty obvious), but just as often I know where I’m going and other cars keep getting in my way, though I always find my way around them. Or it starts snowing and the road is slippery. Or I’ve parked the car somewhere and when I go back for it, I can’t find it. I spend a lot of time running up and down the ramps in parking garages too. Driving, driving, driving . . . running, running, running . . . and getting nowhere.

Actually, this one is starting to sound more like my life, except that in the dreams I’m usually younger and more able-bodied.

I have a confession to make: I was, for most of my adult life, a bona fide shopaholic. I loved going to the big malls, wandering from store to store, roaming through displays of things I would never in a million years have any use for. But especially at the change of seasons, there were the newest fashions. Clothes for work, clothes for play, clothes for the White House dinner I would never be invited to. Clothes for the next cruise. Shoes. Purses. Lingerie. Pajamas. Jewelry. I loved it all.

I don’t do that anymore. At my stage of life — old and retired — I have no need for all those beautiful things. And nowhere to put them anyway, since the downsizing. Besides that, I’m not sure I would survive an entire day of shlepping through a three-story mall complex, complete with food court, gigantic atrium, and multiplex movie theater.

So I dream about it instead. Really. I can’t count the number of times my sister (in reality, gone these past seven years) and I hit the shops, try on clothes, argue over which one is going to get the jacket we’ve both fallen in love with. Those dreams are so real that when I wake up, I have to check to be sure my credit card is still in my wallet and my sister hasn’t miraculously come back to life. (Yes, it is, and no, she hasn’t.)

And then there are the nighttime fantasies where I’m in a theater, and I’m called upon to perform. Lots of luck with that one! I guess that’s just the latent extrovert trying to escape from somewhere deep down inside; but trust me — it’s never going to happen. I have no musical talent, and the last time I acted in anything was in an office Christmas review when I played the part of a cleaning lady singing about the Sherman Antitrust Act. Don’t ask — it was a law firm and the script was written by lawyers, so it’s not going to make sense. All I remember is that I had to have several drinks before screwing up the courage to go onstage. They said I did well, which is what counts, I guess. And I recall the broom.

So I fantasize about performing in my sleep, and the applause is truly uplifting. It also usually wakes me up, which is irritating because then I have to make one of those nocturnal trips to the w.c.

You’ve probably noticed that these have all been dreams built on repeated themes. That in itself must mean something, but I haven’t a clue as to what it might be. There are others that keep cropping up — looking at new houses and apartments, cats and dogs that talk to me, trying to find an unoccupied ladies’ room, and babies that for some reason have been left in my care.

But now and then there will be an excruciatingly detailed, very mixed-up, totally incomprehensible dream that leaves me scratching my head and saying

when I finally wake up. Like the one the other night that included the following:

— A date with a man I sort of liked but wasn’t sure of;

— Going to a party in the wealthy D.C. suburb of Potomac, Maryland;

— Wearing a beautiful, slinky, sparkly, rose-colored evening gown with bare shoulders and “spaghetti” straps;

— Being tall and slim and much younger (that’s how I knew it was a dream);

— Riding in the man’s Lincoln Continental;

— Arriving at the restaurant, where the elevators kept closing before we could get into them;

— Finally being seated with several other people I didn’t know;

— Everyone chipping in for the dinner with cash, but not being allowed to contribute my share;

— Going to the ladies’ room with my sister, who somehow suddenly showed up; and finally

— Riding a different elevator to . . . wait for it . . .

You knew there had to be a garage in there somewhere, didn’t you?

So . . . anybody make sense out of any of that? I’d see a shrink, but I’m scared to death of the diagnosis. I’m also a little afraid to fall asleep at night. But at least my nocturnal life isn’t boring.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/21/24

In the course of pushing those “disastrous consequences” threats this week, Belarus has become the latest excuse for the chorus of warnings emanating from the Moscow Kremlin and Foreign Ministry.

Yesterday, Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova told reporters of her concern as to — in her words — increasingly “provocative” activity on the Belarus-Ukraine border, further stating that she would not rule out the possibility of attempts to “escalate” in the region. [Dmitry Antonov and Andrew Osborn, Reuters, September 20, 2024.]

Shortly after Ukraine’s counteroffensive into Russia’s Kursk region on August 6th, Belarusian leader Aleksandr Lukashenko — in what may have been another of his obsequious attempts to remain relevant to his idol, Vladimir Putin — suggested, without offering a shred of evidence, that Ukraine might be planning to attack Belarus. Or he may have been acting under Putin’s instructions from the get-go. It doesn’t really matter.

In either event, it was the excuse Russia and its puppet state, Belarus, needed. The Minsk government later said that it would be sending extra troops to its border with Ukraine, though Kyiv said it had not seen any sign of major changes. The Ukrainian Foreign Ministry also said last month that their country “has never taken and is not going to take any unfriendly actions against the Belarusian people.” [Id.]

But now, Russia’s Zakharova inexplicably offers this statement:

“We take due note of the information received about the intensification of the activities of Ukrainian forces in the border zone.

”We see these facts ourselves and are aware of constant attempts from the Ukrainian side to use drones and to send terrorists into the republic.” [Id.]

I’m sorry, but . . . What “information”? What “facts”?

Well, according to Zakharova, Ukrainian President Zelensky has already taken “reckless steps,” and she accused him of coordinating his actions with Washington — somehow relating it to the upcoming U.S. presidential election:

“Therefore, in line with this logic, we do not rule out the possibility that these destructive forces could set the situation in the region in motion and escalate.” [Id.]

Aha! Now I get it!

“In line with this logic . . .” “. . . do not rule out the possibility . . .” She’s talking about Russian logic, and possibilities. Not facts.

After all, who needs facts when you’ve got speculation, and conjecture, and inventiveness? You just make it up as you go along, creating the scenario that best suits your purposes.

Zakharova closed with some comments about Russia and Belarus being part of a “Union State” with a joint defense agreement and a joint regional military grouping — sort of a mini-NATO — but deployed in Belarus along with Russian tactical nuclear weapons (there’s that threat again), saying:

“The practical implementation of any scenarios which are aggressive towards Minsk is fraught with disastrous consequences not only for Ukraine, but also for its sponsors.” [Id.]

Sound familiar? Of course, it does. It’s another instance of SSDD:

Same Script, Different Day.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/21/24

I don’t know who thinks up these “holidays,” but apparently a lot of people have found September 21st to be meaningful. So put on your party hats, grab that bottle of Schnapps, and let’s get celebrating, beginning with . . .

World Gratitude Day.

This is a celebration instituted by the United Nations as a reminder to “embrace gratitude as a catalyst for personal happiness and mental well-being. It serves as a poignant reminder to pause, reflect, and appreciate the blessings in our lives, fostering humility and a positive mindset.”

That’s a lovely idea. But has the U.N. looked around lately at the world of today? I’m grateful not to be living in, for example, Ukraine or Gaza. But mental well-being is getting harder and harder to achieve everywhere. Sorry, United Nations, but maybe we should put this one on hold until you’ve fixed a few more of the bigger problems.

Locate An Old Friend Day.

I’ve done this, and it’s a great idea. I really loved seeing how much older they’ve all gotten, while I’ve stayed . . . well, never mind.

National CleanUp Day.

Really? That sounds worthwhile, but exhausting.

Oktoberfest.

Oh, yeah . . . this is something we can all get behind. Thus that bottle of Schnapps I mentioned in the beginning. Or if you prefer:

International Eat an Apple Day.

If it will keep the doctor away, so much the better. Make mine a Honey Crisp, please. (Just a personal preference.)

International Coastal CleanUp Day.

See National CleanUp Day. Also, I live inland. But if you’re anywhere near a coast, go for it.

World Alzheimer’s Day.

I assume we’re not actually celebrating Alzheimer’s, but rather working toward finding a cure. Definitely worth a contribution.

International Day of Peace.

Another U.N. creation. You have to admire their tenacity.

National Chai Day.

I assume this is the “chai” that refers to a type of tea, which I love. Or it could be construed as meaning “life,” as in the Hebrew word pronounced something like “high.” Either way, count me in.

National Gymnastics Day.

Not even when I was younger! I still have the burns on my thighs from trying to climb a rope in gym class. Don’t even ask me about the balance beam!

Big Whopper Liar Day.

I’ve never heard of this one, and I’m not sure what it’s supposed to commemorate. But I do know whom I’d like to nominate to be the poster child for it.

*. *. *

And happy first day of fall tomorrow, everyone!

Brendochka
9/21/24