Barb Caffrey's Blog

Writing the Elfyverse . . . and beyond

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What I Have Been Doing…

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Folks, I have not been very communicative lately. I realize that. I’ve been struggling with several things, including plantar fasciitis in my left heel that makes walking difficult and painful. (That’s saying something, as I already walk with a cane and deal with pain daily from my knees and back.) I’ve been saving my energy mostly for editing and writing.

Mind, I do have a few things to report in that area. I’ve been very cagey about it, but I am about done with a novel set in my friend and client Chris Nuttall’s Schooled in Magic universe. I have 105,000 words written, and that seems to be about the right length…now I have to go back and smooth out some rough edges, before I can send it to my four chosen readers (two that know the SIM universe, and two that don’t), to see what they think and what I need to do next.

You might be wondering who I’m writing about. I will tell you this much: it’s not about Emily. It’s not about Nanette (though that did tempt me). It’s instead about a minor character in Adam’s trilogy (starting with The Cunning Man) that I felt was getting a bit of a bad rap, whose story just kind of hit me in the head one day.

I hadn’t intended to write it, mind you. But after reading the third novel, where this character acts a whole lot better (and it did make sense), I had a whole monologue show up, in first person, that I wrote down. I showed it to Chris, and also showed it to another good friend who knows the SIM universe well, Leo Champion…they both said I had to keep going.

So, for the last three years, that’s what I’ve been doing. Sometimes progress has been slow. Sometimes it’s been in leaps and bounds. But I now have a viable story, what I hope will be the first of a trilogy of stories about this character.

After my four readers see it and tell me what they think, I’ll have a better idea as to a timeline as to when it may come out. My hope is for early fall, but we’ll see. I do intend to give “teaser” chapters when the time comes.

“But Barb,” I can hear you asking. “What about your three existing novels? What’s up with them? They’re not back out there yet.”

I have submitted them to a new publisher, and they are in that pipeline. So far, they haven’t been rejected yet (I asked about them a few days ago, hoping I wasn’t jogging the publisher’s elbow too much), but I do have a backup plan in case they are. I hope to have them back out again before the novel in Chris’s SIM universe comes out.

As far as other writing goes, Gail Sanders and I wrote a third story about Lance Corporal Marcus McGruder and Master Sergeant Peter Welmsley for an upcoming anthology (no, I won’t tell you exactly what the story is, or when it may come out, as it hasn’t been accepted yet and I’m superstitious that way). I have a backup plan for that, too…lately, my life seems all about “backup plans,” for lack of a better term.

For those of you wondering about my living situation, it’s in the same place as before. I’ll keep you posted, elsewise.

Other than that, I’ve been trying to help several rescue groups — some nearby, some not — to let folks know that good dogs are available in the various animal shelters. Many shelters waive fees for at-risk dogs (“at-risk” meaning they’re on the equivalent of doggie death row, or euthanasia), and most of the time the only reason these poor dogs are at-risk is because of overcrowding at the animal shelters.

This is the worst time of year for that, mind you. For whatever reason, dogs, cats, and other animals end up in the shelters far more often in the summer than any other time of the year, and they don’t deserve it.

I feel for these dogs (usually the cats are more easily placed, so I’m mentioning the dogs instead). They are kind-hearted, loving dogs, well-socialized, many of them get along with other dogs, with kids, some get along with cats, and the shelters notate which ones are especially good at taking treats gently from your hands or don’t pull on the leash.

They’ve done nothing to end up in the circumstances they’re in. They’ve just loved people, sometimes those who’ve let them down, and sometimes those who through no fault of theirs can no longer take care of them.

Being in the shelter is scary for them. They don’t know why they’re there.

I believe in lifelong pet ownership whenever possible. (Longtime readers of my blog know this.) My favorite dog ever, Trouble, was over seventeen when he died (he was a Shih Tzu mix of some sort, gray, black, and white). My mother’s little dog, Bratty, is now over seventeen, and is still as feisty as ever. (I hope Mom will have Bratty for quite some time yet, but of course you never know.) Mom’s dogs Floyd and Blackie were at least thirteen before they passed (Blackie was a bit bigger and a Cocker spaniel mix of some sort; Floyd was “genuine American mutt,” sweet, loving, but don’t trust him around pizza or seafood!), and the only dog I can recall of any she had dying early was Clyde, who was only six years old but had a neurological issue that caused paralysis, and the vets weren’t able to do anything to help him.

So, I see these young dogs — some are only a year or two old! — in the shelter, and my heart just cracks open for them. They could have decades left if they only find the right person, the right family, for them.

My friend Rosemary Edghill, who died recently, rescued Cavalier King Charles spaniels, especially the older ones. I’ve been doing a lot more dog rescuing work (sharing posts, discussing things with volunteers, and such) since she passed. I’m not sure why this is, except that I admired her, and wanted at least one thing I could do to help remember her by. I hope my efforts, small as they are, will do some good…and at least they can’t do harm.

I am not in a position where I can get a dog of my own. (More’s the pity.) But I can share when good dogs are available, and I’ve tried to do that lately, especially on my Facebook page. There are several excellent rescue places that are nearby, including It’s a Pittie Rescue and Chi-Town Pitties, that often feature wonderful dogs. The Chicago area shelters are full, too, as are the folks in Atlanta (I often share for them), and there are so many wonderful and amazing animals there that deserve their forever homes.

It’s something that can break your heart, if you let it, trying to rescue animals. But my motto is, do whatever you can, for as long as you can, and hope that your efforts will do some good.

That’s my motto overall. About writing, about music, about dog-rescuing, about friendship…help as you’re able, do whatever you can, and hope your efforts do some good even if you can’t see it.

Anyway, that’s what’s going on with me here in Chez Caffrey. What’s going on with you? Let me know in the comments.

Written by Barb Caffrey

August 3, 2026 at 10:06 am

Posted in Atlantean Union, heartbreaking stories, Heartwarming stories, in general, Informational Stuff, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Writing

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Just an Ordinary Day? Reflections on Grief

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I’ve now been without the love of my life, Michael B. Caffrey, for twenty-one years, nine months, and twenty-three days.

Every day, when I wake up, I think about how long it’s been. Sometimes it feels like forever, and sometimes it feels like I just saw him a minute ago. I’m fortunate, as I’ve said before, that I often feel his love around me, supporting me, giving me a reason to keep trying even on the difficult days.

This is one of them.

See, while Michael never would’ve celebrated it — and I would not have talked about it when he was alive except with my closest friends — this would’ve been his sixty-eighth birthday. He did not like to celebrate his birthday whatsoever, but he liked to celebrate every other day — the unBirthdays, if you will — especially after we found each other and married.

For him, a birthday was no different than any other day. He wasn’t interested in most celebrations. But he was happy to celebrate being with me, and I was happy to celebrate being with him on his natal day or any other day.

Michael was the most positive person I’ve ever known. He had faith, kindness, goodness — though he’d say he was “as pure as the driven slush,” mind you — was faithful, loyal, honorable, ethical, had a wicked sense of humor, and showed me how much he loved me every single day.

I waited a long time before I found him. As I’ve said before, he and I were both divorced when we met, and he pretty much said to himself (not to me, not then) that I was going to be the woman he married. But he didn’t want to scare me off, as he knew I was quite gun-shy by that point.

I don’t know how he got me to hear him. To trust that he was different, that he truly cared, that he would not betray me (not cheat, not lie, not steal, not any of that), to believe that just once, in this life, I had found a mental equal along with a spiritual, physical, and emotional one. But he did, and we had that amazing conversation for thirty-six hours — our first lengthy conversation, and the longest, but it wouldn’t be the last — around Christmas Day of 2001. Neither one of us wanted to go to bed, to leave our conversation, to stop talking, because I think we both feared it wouldn’t be real and it wouldn’t have happened if we went to sleep.

In fact, if I remember right, when I got up the next day, Michael left me an email with a subject line something like, “On Further Review…” So, I opened that email with a bit of trepidation, thinking he might’ve been trying to walk back what we’d discussed the previous evening and throughout the day and night again.

His first line, after saying something like, “Hi, beautiful woman of my dreams,” was this: “I take none of it back.”

This was the first time, and maybe the only time, I’d ever met someone who’d stand by his word. Where the words mattered as much as the actions. Where the dreams we had, that we’d never told anyone about, were safe to discuss. That our creativity could flower due to our deep and incredible connectedness to each other…I had no idea that someone could be this enthused about anything I wanted to do that was positive.

I mean, I’d write music, and he’d read it. He could read all clefs, too. I don’t know if he ever played an instrument, but he read music and understood it.

I’d write words, and he’d sit down with me, read them over, show me some stuff he was doing, I’d read that over…I think we both grew as writers and editors because of each other.

And the wide-ranging interests he had…he knew so much about so many different subjects, and he always wanted to learn more. He looked for deeper and richer experiences all the days of his life, did not suffer fools gladly (or at all), was ethical, principled, constantly made me laugh, was always learning, and was always so present in the moment. (I think that was due to his practice of Zen Buddhism.)

The bone-deep sincerity of him, along with his maturity, his wisdom, his serenity…it was and remains an incredibly attractive combination, one I’ve seen matched nowhere else, by no one else.

(Aside: While I do hope, now, to eventually meet another good man, long-time readers of my blog know this took me almost twelve years — twelve full years — after Michael died to admit I still wanted. It hasn’t happened since. But I know that Michael’s love for me was profound and he’d never want to stand in my way for any potential happiness. End aside.)

So, my grief has been profound for my wonderful, incredible, amazing, sexy, smart, funny, ethical, principled, and intelligent man, my Michael. The three days that are the hardest for me to bear are this one, our wedding anniversary (in June), and the day of his death in September. It’s hard to believe that such a huge presence, someone I still feel around me to the point I wake up and am immediately disappointed as Michael is still dead…well. It’s hard to believe I’ll never hold him in the circle of my arms again.

Grief comes in waves. Some days, it’s like a tsunami and all you can do is try to withstand it however you may, so you’re standing…albeit in a bunch of floating wreckage. Some days, it’s more bittersweet, because the good things that happened make you smile, and knowing that this astonishing person was your husband, is your husband still and always will be no matter what happens to our bodies after this life on Earth ends, outweighs anything else.

Mostly, though, I have a form of PTSD, something my last two counselors discussed with me. I saw Michael fall, behind me, with the first of his four heart attacks. (He was too far away for me to catch, and as I’ve said before here on my blog, I would’ve dislocated both arms had I tried. But I would’ve tried. I would’ve done anything to stop that from happening.) I heard his last words, which were “where’s my wife?” as I’d been sent up to our apartment to get the meds he took, as that potentially might save his life (the guy next door was a paramedic, and he said to do this; it made sense to me). I told him I’d be right back and for him to hold on…but when I got back down there, he was being loaded into the ambulance, no pulse, no breathing.

I knew what that was. Bad, bad, and more bad.

They kept trying, because he was only forty-six. He’d had no signs of this. He’d passed a cardiac stress test earlier in the year — a chemical stress test, granted, as he had significant arthritis in the form of chondromalacia. But he passed it.

The ambulance driver looked at me and asked if I was his daughter. (I can’t help it. Even now, after all the stress and strain of the last twenty-one-plus years, I still look considerably younger than my age.) I said, “No, I’m his wife. Now let’s get him to the hospital!”

After eighteen minutes, Michael’s vital signs returned. They still had some hope, though he did not wake up again. They could tell he was fighting very hard. He then had a second heart attack — out again for over ten minutes — and later, a third. By this time, I’d called my parents and my father was on the way from Wisconsin. (We lived in Iowa, then.) They took him to get a brain scan, to see if he still had electrical activity in his brain, and he did — in a non-standard place, but that happened for my Mom, years ago, after she had pneumonia so bad she went into an eight-day coma. I tried to have hope.

They sent me back home to take my own meds, including my blood pressure medicine. I went online (still dialup, back then) to let our friends know that Michael was dying.

Then I got the call to go back to the hospital. He’d had a fourth heart attack, and they were still doing compressions…his blood pressure fell to 30/10, and he had a pulse rate that was so low it almost wasn’t measurable. But he was trying, he was trying to live, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to leave me, we’d both waited so long to find each other…it didn’t seem fair, then, and it still doesn’t seem fair now.

I had to be the one to tell him that if he couldn’t come back as himself, without brain damage, which they thought was going to be likely even if he miraculously woke up from all those manual chest compressions, that he should go into eternity and that I’d try my best to never forget his love, never forget him, never forget what we had, and that I would always try to feel his love.

After thirty more minutes (by this time, my father had made it to the hospital and was there at my side), Michael died, just shy of 9 p.m.

I still see all of what happened in Technicolor (TM), and I can’t do anything other than witness it. I know how much Michael loved me. I know how much he wanted to be with me. I know he wanted to finish his stories and keep working on his other crafts (he was an artist, among his many talents). I know he wanted to hear me play in various bands (mostly concert bands, occasionally in jazz ensembles), to hear me practice, to read the music I composed, and to read the words I wrote, too. (I wrote poetry, too, and still occasionally do.)

Life has been very, very difficult for me since he died. I am not going to lie and say that it hasn’t been. I still try my hardest to hold any sort of positive thought (today, it was petting my Mom’s seventeen-year-old dog, Bratty), or to do anything that is life-affirming, honest, and real. I also do what I can to remember all of Michael — his goodness, his kindness, his serenity, his sense of humor and eternally questing mind, all of it — and not just the way he died.

It’s hard for me to believe, even now, that he is not with me in the flesh. I’d like to think if there are multiple universes (the physicists sure seem to believe it’s possible), that Michael perhaps did not die there, and that the iteration of me there with him is still blissfully happy.

Don’t get me wrong. We never made much money. Our lives were not easy, not separately, not even together. But they were much better, much richer, much more satisfying, because I knew he understood me and he knew I understood him. It was a never-ending series of wonders even on the horrid days, like when we were served with eviction papers when we still lived in San Francisco…even on the last day of his life, before he collapsed, Michael believed we’d find our way into a better situation if we only kept trying and kept our faith in ourselves and in the Goddess Herself (as both of us tended to see the Deity as female).

I’ve done what I can since he passed. I’ve kept his Atlantean Union universe alive, albeit in a different way than he’d envisioned. I’ve been fortunate there that my good friend, Gail Sanders, is a former Army Reservist (now retired), and knows things about the military I just don’t. (We have two stories available in Tales of the E4 Mafia and Tales of the E4 Mafia 2, and we hope to have a third coming out in a new anthology later this year.) So I’ve continued to write. My Elfyverse, which I wrote and conceived when Michael was alive, is still there, and I’ve written some short stories for the Fantastic Schools anthologies. I also have written more music, more poetry, made new friends, kept up with old friends, tried to be there for my family (and am still trying)…life goes on.

Is it what I want it to be? No.

Is it better than it would’ve been had Michael never entered my life? Yes.

Ultimately, what I tell myself every day is, I can only do my best. And my best means I remember the love, the caring, the honesty, the serenity, the bone-deep kindness, and yes, also the flaws (Michael absolutely adored being right, to name one, but I thought that completely understandable). My best means that I do not shirk from the difficult truths. My best means that I have to expect the best from myself, even on a bad day, even on a tough day…and my best means that I have to stay myself, my recognizable self, so that if Michael somehow could miraculously come back to life (I know he can’t), he’d recognize me instantly.

Grief is hard. I don’t enjoy it, to put it mildly. But if this is what I have to deal with due to finding the love of my life and getting a few good years with him before his sudden and unexpected passing, that’s just the price of admission.

I wish we’d had far more time. I wish Michael would’ve been able to write more stories and finish his own novels and write more in the Atlantean Union ‘verse on his own.

But I will never regret the time we did get. It was the highlight of my existence. And I honor it, all the days of my life.

Written by Barb Caffrey

July 14, 2026 at 7:38 pm

Posted in Atlantean Union, Books, Editing, Elfy, Elfyverse, friendship, heartbreaking stories, in general, love stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, romance, Widowhood, Writing

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Can Divorce Be Beneficial? My Thoughts

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Ten years ago, I wrote a blog about divorce that was well-received, and I decided to revisit it today for two reasons. One, we’ve got another celebrity divorce that’s in the news, that being between Jelly Roll and Bunnie XO. Two, as someone who’s been both previously divorced and, after blessedly finding and marrying the love of my life, widowed, I know there is life after both things…but most especially after divorce.

As the previous blog stated:

Yes, divorce is painful. But if you and your spouse do not understand each other, have grown apart, or worst of all, he’s brought another child into this world outside of your marriage (which my second unlamented ex-husband did), you need to be gone. It’s not good for you to stay. And if you have children, your children will see all your pain, all your anger, all your dysfunction, and start to model it for themselves in their own relationships…something you truly don’t want.

Mind you, divorce is not easy, which my previous blog also discussed:

My (first) divorce was brutal. I remember eating baby food, because nothing else would stay down. I saw my soon-to-be-ex-husband parading around town with the woman who became his second wife, and I could do nothing but swallow helpless rage. (It took me some time to realize that I was enraged, mind, because at first I was so saddened by all of this, and wondered how it could have ever come to pass.) I played in a group with my soon-to-be-ex-husband and his new girlfriend, the woman who became his second wife, and it sometimes was agonizing…yet I refused to give up the comfort of music, as I knew I needed it to help me somehow get past the pain.

When I was dealing with my first divorce in particular, I had no idea what life would bring. I was still quite young, thought I’d completely failed, and was very frustrated (to say the least). It was extremely depressing to deal with, to know that I’d picked someone who could do what my first ex-husband did. And it wasn’t much better, if at all, with my second ex-husband, as it was difficult, disturbing, frustrating, and quite awful to deal with.

The light at the end of the tunnel, though, as I said in the previous blog, was not an oncoming train:

I found Michael (or, as he would no doubt want to have it, he found me). And finding him, being with him, being married to him, was worth every other pain in my life, past and present. He understood me, he was creative and funny and helped me be my best self, and I did my best to give him all the support, encouragement, laughter and love that I could, too.

Because that is what love is.

So, if you are divorcing right now, try to avoid giving in to despair. Divorce gives you the opportunity to find someone who is truly right for the you-who-is right now, rather than continuing to fight the same old battles in the same old ways.

You have to see yourself as someone who’s survived something difficult, and have come out the other side even stronger, rather than as a failure. It took me a while to figure this out. But it’s absolutely essential for your peace of mind.

I want to say this, too: You don’t have to be bad people in every respect in order to divorce. My exes had good qualities, even if they weren’t good husbands. (I said in the previous blog that they mostly were shining examples of what not to do, and I stand by that.) I wouldn’t have married them at all if I hadn’t seen the good in them. All I could do, ultimately, was say, “Go with God” and hope they’re better husbands to their second wives.

Perhaps I needed them in my life, if only to say, “I don’t need that. But this quality, I liked.” Otherwise, maybe I wouldn’t have ever been able to recognize Michael’s sterling qualities, much less give him a chance to convince me to take a chance on a third marriage.

And that third marriage is really what defined my life in many ways. I’m glad I took that chance. (“Glad” is too neutral of a word, mind. Maybe I should use “ecstatic” instead?)

In the case of Jelly Roll and his wife Bunnie XO, they had a ten-year marriage that gave them much satisfaction at times and much pain at others. It’s possible they may reconcile. It’s also possible they never speak to each other again. I hope for their sake, though, that they can be amicable and always be friendly.

I don’t need to be a personal friend of theirs to know that.

Anyway, I know being friendly post-divorce is possible for some, though it wasn’t possible for me. Michael, my late husband, and his ex-wife were the best of friends. (In fact, I’m still in contact with her today. She’s a lovely person and is remarried to a very kind-hearted man.)

Finally, remember that we’re all just human beings. Some days are better than others. Some days are worse. But we contain both the best and worst in one package, and our lives are up to us.

For good or ill, our lives are up to us.

Written by Barb Caffrey

June 18, 2026 at 12:14 am

Posted in in general, Informational Stuff, love stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Public figures, Remembrance

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Former NBA Star, Basketball Hall of Famer Chris Bosh Wrote Something Everyone Needs to Read

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When I woke up this morning, I started my normal routine. The aches and pains I live with, the overall frustration of still looking for a place while attempting to help my ill family member, and of course the grief I will always have over the loss of my beloved husband Michael are always there. (Sometimes I wake up and wonder where Michael is, not as in, “What is the Other Side and what could he be doing there?” but “He was just here, in the dream! Where is he now?”)

Life is often frustrating. But it has moments of joy, too. And those moments can be ripped from you in a heartbeat if you don’t pay attention to your health or the folks you most care about in order to chase meaningless things (like trying to keep up with a famous Internet star or content creator; it’s great that they do what they do, but there’s nothing wrong with what you do either and you don’t have to do the same things in order to have value or create meaning in your life.)

The reason I say all this is that I read a very insightful column by former NBA star and basketball Hall-of-Famer Chris Bosh, which is the first post he’s written at Substack in over four years. Here’s a bit from that:

I was walking from my closet into the bathroom, getting ready for an evening out, when my body turned on me. A numbing sensation shot down my left leg, that sharp, electric feeling you get when you bump your funny bone. Before I knew it, I was on the floor.

I slowly came to in a pool of my own blood while my wife frantically spoke with 911. I tried to move my body the way I always had, and it didn’t respond.

There was no choice but to surrender. It was a terrifying event, something I had never experienced before. That’s when the realization hit me, everything can collapse at a moment’s notice. There’s not always a warning. There’s not always a symptom or a buildup to let you know what’s coming. One moment you’re walking. The next moment, you could be gone.

He’s right.

He later discusses that there are a whole lot of things people pay attention to in this life that don’t matter one bit. The important things are ones that we sometimes take for granted, like health, the health of our loved ones, enough time to spend with our loved ones, and doing things that edify us rather than gratify us. (Though if you love learning, as I do, it can be both sometimes.)

What Chris Bosh and his wife went through was scary, to say the least. And if a former professional athlete, one who’s always taken excellent care of his body (or he’d never have been able to do the remarkable things he did on the court to make a living), can have this happen, any of us can.

(As if I didn’t know that already, considering what happened to Michael. But I digress, because it’s important to be reminded of our core truths sometimes.)

I left a comment there about how I understood, and about two of my best friends, who’ve suffered the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” health-wise, and some of the limitations they have. (I also briefly sketched some of the limitations I have.)

The important thing, though, is that we’re still alive to do whatever we can. I survived a pulmonary embolism, which not everyone can do (I was told how lucky I was in the ER a few years ago). Chris Bosh just survived this scary and disturbing experience. My friends Kat and Lika have survived illness, misdiagnoses, lots of frustration and pain, and the loss of being able to freely move about and do whatever they want to do without having to plan for the energy expenditure first.

Make no mistake: when you have to constantly “ration your spoons” (referring to “spoon theory,” here; Google it), life changes for you and seemingly gets smaller.

But that’s only seemingly. The world is still wide, still has possibilities and accomplishments, still has something of value to offer, and most importantly, we still have something important to offer to it, too.

We have to try to smell the flowers, as cliched as that phrase is. We have to figure out who matters most to us, and let them know that, and value them and honor them, before it’s too late to do so. We also have to figure out what is the best use of our time, energy, and resources, and spend more time on that and less time on nonessentials like doomscrolling. (Though there often is a lot to doomscroll about, it doesn’t do much good and wastes our precious time.)

In my case, I am trying to save what energy I have to write, edit, comment, and also compose music on the side (that I can play myself, though if all goes well, someday I hope to hear someone else or maybe a band or even an orchestra play it once I flesh it out a little). These are the important things in my life.

Of course, I still have to do things like food shopping, laundry, care for my ill family member, care for my health, etc. Those things don’t go away. But I can perhaps approach them a little differently and be grateful I’m here to still do them…at least some of the time. (None of us can be grateful for chores all of the time. Even Mother Theresa had days she didn’t want to do her job if I remember some of her quoted comments right. And I’m sure some of what she did seemed like a chore for her.)

The important thing is what we do while we’re here. The people we love. The activities that make us go, give us life, and give us a reason to get up in the morning despite the pain and stress.

That’s why I loved Chris Bosh’s Substack column today, and hope you will, too.

Written by Barb Caffrey

February 25, 2026 at 5:25 pm

Posted in Heartwarming stories, Michael B. Caffrey, Prescient observations, Sports figures, Writing

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Tom Brady Cloned His Favorite Dog, and I Have Thoughts…

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Folks, I’ve been wrestling with this issue for several days (in addition to trying to get rid of the most recent sinus infection, doing my best to make some progress in other areas, looking for apartments, etc.), and finally figured out now is the right time to start discussing it.

Tom Brady found a company that would clone his favorite dog, named Lua, partly because he’s got a lot of money, and partly because he adored his late dog. From what I’ve read, the company that did the cloning (Colossal Biosciences) did so starting from a blood sample from Lua taken before she passed. His new dog, Junie, is a clone of Lua. (Note that Brady is an investor in this company, too.)

But here’s the thing about clones: If you can’t duplicate the exact same nurturing environment, you probably won’t get the same personality as your former animal. They have the same DNA, yes, but just as identical twin human children can have radically different personalities, so can dogs, cats, parakeets, or in one case, a rare white bull.

(I don’t know for sure that parakeets have been cloned yet, but it appears that both dogs and cats have been. The white bull that was cloned turned out to be far meaner and much less friendly than the original bull, which disappointed the farmer who’d cloned him. But I digress.)

Even if you do duplicate the exact, same nurturing environment, there are still other factors that can play into personalities. There are so many different factors that go into making a person who they are, which also goes for every other animal on Earth. That’s why identical twins can have radically different personalities, even if raised by the same family. Nurture, nature, the type of environment…all of it matters, as do so many other factors that defy description.

But back to Brady’s dog for the moment.

Bluntly, a genetic duplicate is not the same dog. While it is an exact copy of the original, Junie can’t be Lua, just as Lua couldn’t be Junie. That’s why the owner of the white bull was disappointed in part; he wanted his original bull cloned because he was exceptionally mild-mannered and gentle. However, as I said earlier, the clone of that bull was meaner, very difficult to handle, and nothing like his progenitor.

Such situations have been raised by science fiction authors in the past, mind you. The one I’m the most familiar with is Lois McMaster Bujold’s cloned character Mark Vorkosigan, a younger clone of his brother, Miles. Mark had many things inflicted on him to make him an exact physical duplicate of Miles that didn’t need to happen (read the books BROTHERS IN ARMS and MIRROR DANCE for more information on that), as Miles was damaged in utero due to a failed assassination attempt on his parents, and that obviously didn’t happen to Mark. So, the original, Miles, was only four feet, nine inches because of what happened to him, whereas Mark was biologically retrofitted to look like Miles, but had far heavier bones and would’ve most likely been close to six feet tall (if not over it) had the awful people who illegally cloned him left him alone. (The torturous things done to Mark, if thought about too much, will make anyone sick.)

So, Mark and Miles are facially identical. Their personalities are radically different. They both learn over time to function as true brothers, partly because their mother, Cordelia, was raised in a society that understands how to deal with clones legally, honestly, and completely aboveboard. (Cordelia knows Mark didn’t ask for any of this, which is one of the reasons I love Cordelia so much as a character. But again, I digress.) Mark is quite a bit heavier than Miles is, again because he was not damaged in utero, and Mark learns to use his heavier frame (he frankly says he’s obese, for whatever it’s worth, whereas Miles is skinny and often looks emaciated due to various health woes) to his own advantage.

It’s because I know all of this is as true as Lois McMaster Bujold, a writer who has a strong grounding in science, could make it that I question Tom Brady’s reasoning here. It’s wonderful that he wanted Lua to somehow live on in a successor. But Junie is not Lua, and will not behave like Lua no matter what he wants unless he gets very, very lucky. (Think again about the farmer with his cloned white bull if you don’t believe me.)

We’ve known cloning animals is possible since Dolly the sheep got cloned in 1996. Sheep don’t show as obvious of personalities as a lot of animals (though they do have them), which may be why Dolly’s personality was never called into question. At that point, geneticists were happy to have finally cloned a sheep from an adult cell (as some other sheep had been cloned in a different way back in 1984), and as Dolly the clone was mild-mannered (as most sheep tend to be), that factor was not discussed much in media accounts.

What all of this amounts to, mind you, whether you’re talking about Junie, clone of Tom Brady’s beloved dog Lua, or the fictional Mark Vorkosigan, clone of Miles Vorkosigan, is that a genetic copy — a clone — may be identical from a genetic perspective, but it’s not going to be identical in every other way unless every other factor the original had been exposed to (or had happen to them) was replicated in full. Even then, it’s still unlikely, but theoretically possible, that you’ll get a dog or bull or parakeet or whatever that acts exactly like the original/originator.

Going back to Mark Vorkosigan’s story, he had some personality traits that were just like his progenitor’s, including high intelligence, adaptability, and being able to immerse himself in a role if need be. But he was far surlier, especially at first, as life dealt him a very bad hand (the retrofitting surgeries to cut him down from the height he should’ve had to the height Miles attained due to the damage in utero were nightmarish and horrific). Mark didn’t trust easily, to say the least, and he didn’t know why anyone would want to ever do anything nice for him. (Learning exactly who he is, and who he isn’t, is the main thrust of the novel MIRROR DANCE, which I highly recommend you read.) Over time, Mark becomes a financier and philanthropist (self-made), whereas Miles pursues the military and then later becomes an Imperial Auditor (using all of his skills for the best to solve various problems, roughly). Miles couldn’t do what Mark does, while Mark not only can’t do what Miles does, he has no interest in doing it either.

That’s because they’re both people. They can’t expect to be the same. They know they aren’t no matter how identical their DNA happens to be. Different experiences, different approaches to problems…which is very human and understandable.

Anyway, Tom Brady spent fifty thousand dollars to clone Lua. He got Junie out of it. I hope Junie will be a wonderful family pet, but I also hope that Brady and his family will realize Junie is not Lua, can never be Lua, doesn’t have Lua’s memories or experiences…only has Lua’s DNA, and as Junie matures more every year, her own personality and her own memories and her own experiences will shine through.

The upshot is, while I understand and sympathize with any pet lover who wants their beloved animal back, I think it’s better to go get an animal from the local shelter and adopt that animal than it is to clone your dog. You know full well that the new-to-you dog is not going to react in the same way as any of your other dogs, and you won’t be thrown off by how similar the cloned dog looks to the old…nor by behavior that you probably never saw out of your old dog either. The chance of confusion at how the cloned dog looks just like the old (but doesn’t act just like it) won’t apply, either, as you’ll be able to get to know your dog over time just as your dog is — warts and all, knocking the garbage over and all, chewing up shoes and all, and whatever other mischief the dog can come up with along with its more loveable cuddles, snuggles, and companionable walks.

So, what do you think about Tom Brady’s cloned dog? Or the thought of cloning in general? I’m interested to hear your thoughts.

Written by Barb Caffrey

November 21, 2025 at 5:58 am

Posted in Criticism/critique, in general, Prescient observations, Public figures, Remembrance, Sports figures, Writing

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No Housing News Yet…But Milwaukee Brewers Continuing to Thrive

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Folks, I knew I owed you all some sort of update regarding my housing situation. I wish I had a better one. I’m still looking for a place and remain on quite a few waiting lists. I am moving up on those lists, but not quickly enough.

I’m still staying with a relative. This is not an easy situation for either one of us. I appreciate the help, though I wish I didn’t need it, and every day is a struggle.

One of the few bright spots I’ve had to consider has been the overall play of the 2025 version of the Milwaukee Brewers. Last year, in the MLB playoffs, the Brewers were eliminated in the first round at the very last minute by the New York Mets (a late homer by Pete Alonso, a slugging first baseman/superstar, off our star closer, Devin Williams, was what caused the Brewers to be eliminated). So this year, in order to have a better playoff chance, the team set a new record for wins with 97 and had the best overall record in the entirety of MLB. This guaranteed the Brewers would have more home games than road games in the playoffs, and also guaranteed a first-round bye so the team could heal up a little.

What’s been so outstanding about the play of the 2025 Brewers is how everyone called to help has stepped up. There was an outfielder called up during the summer, Steward Berroa, who made a great highlight-reel catch in centerfield to save one game, and he was only up a few days with the Brewers. Other standouts were the pitching of Chad Patrick, shuttling back and forth from Triple-A to the big-league club, the pitching of Logan Henderson (who showed without a doubt that he’s a big-leaguer, but was not able to stick in the bigs due to too many people ahead of him at the position), the fact that good players like Blake Perkins and Robert Gasser were able to heal from injuries and come back to contribute…no matter what, the Brewers found a way to win.

And they even turned one odd situation into an advantage, in that pitcher Aaron Civale did not want to be a reliever even on a team that could well win the World Series. He felt he would not make enough money next year if he became a reliever, so the Brewers had to find a trade partner in a hurry. They did. The Chicago White Sox had a struggling first baseman named Andrew Vaughn, who they’d sent to Triple-A over his lack of productivity at the plate. The Brewers swapped Civale for Vaughn, and that was one of the turning points for the Brewers as Vaughn (after an injury to starting first baseman Rhys Hoskins) stepped up in a big way for the Brewers and became not just a star with the team, but a fan favorite.

There’s no quit in the 2025 Brewers. They just keep going. They’re relentless. Their manager, Pat Murphy, has described them as “woodpeckers,” which seems accurate as they just keep pecking away. They are a resilient and determined team, they get along well with each other (always a plus), and they’ve just found a way to keep getting better all season long.

Right now, they are preparing for Game 4 against the Chicago Cubs in Chicago. The Brewers lead this series, two games to one. (The Brew Crew lost last night to Chicago, 4-3.) And they’ll have their very best starting pitcher, their ace, Freddy Peralta, pitching tonight.

No major reporter for MLB picked the Brewers to be as good as they turned out to be. (Most had the Brewers finishing in fourth place, and not even winning more games than they lost. They were quite wrong.) Even now, the Brewers are not expected to beat teams they handily beat all season long if they continue in the playoffs (I’m looking squarely at you, Los Angeles Dodgers), and they’re certainly not expected by the major media outlets to be the National League’s entrant in the World Series.

I hope they will be, though. I like this team a lot. It reminds me of my favorite-ever team, the 1982 Brewers (then in the American League), which was another team that just did not quit and kept going no matter what. The ’82 team is the only one that has ever reached the World Series, and it did not win (though it did take seven games to eliminate the Brewers and end their season without the WS win). It’s about time a new Brewers team gets a chance to win a World Series…and the 2025 team is in an excellent position to do just that, providing they can get by the Cubs and whoever else they might have to play in the next round (the NL Championship Series, or NLCS) — right now, it would appear that team is likely to be the Dodgers, but it could still be the Phillies if the Phillies scramble and are able to win three games in a row (they won one game last night; two to go).

This team, like the ’82 Brewers, gives me hope that if you try hard enough, and you maximize your talents, and if you get some lucky breaks, you can still do very well for yourself. (The Brewers had a fourteen-game winning streak after an eleven-game winning streak earlier, and an eight-game winning streak as well. To win fourteen games in a row meant there were some good breaks happening; that’s when the phrases “Uecker Magic” to commemorate late baseball announcer and friend of the Brewers team Bob Uecker, and “Brewers Magic/Milwaukee Magic” were coined.) Mind you, that doesn’t mean you can take your eye off the ball. You have to keep doing your best, even when it seems hopeless, even when it seems like there’s no way you can win…you can only lose if you give up inside your head, and I refuse to do that.

So, I will cheer on my Brewers tonight as they take on the Cubs in Chicago. I’ll also keep trying to find a good place to live, one that I can afford, that has heat in the winter and air in the summer, in order to improve my overall physical health and give me the best chance to write, edit, and compose music.

Written by Barb Caffrey

October 9, 2025 at 1:42 pm

Posted in baseball, Brewers pitchers, Brewers trades, Milwaukee Brewers baseball club, Persistence, Prescient observations, Public figures, Writing

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21 Years (Yes, 21) Without Michael

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Folks, about a week ago, I observed the title milestone, one I wish I’d never have had to face.

There’s this weird thing about numbers, you see. They can really freak you out. I remember September 21, 2011, as that was the seventh year since Michael died. Supposedly, all the cells in your body are replaced within seven years. I didn’t like that milestone either.

Others I haven’t liked included in that same year the day I turned a day older than Michael was when he died (no, I’m not going to mention which day) and of course the day my best friend, Jeff Wilson, died in November.

So, the sad milestones (“sadaversaries” in my parlance, a contraction of sad and anniversaries) have kept piling up. Ten years without Michael on September 21, 2014. Twenty years without him, last year. And twenty-one years without him this year…it’s something we do, as human beings, to both mark the passage of time and the people who shaped us and meant the most to us. It must not be too surprising that I always know exactly how long it’s been without my beloved husband. But it’s still difficult, challenging, and frustrating.

The reason twenty-one years is significant has to do with something I once heard about learning music and other skills. If you have the talent and you put in the work, it supposedly takes twenty-one years to be adept in any given discipline.

How does that apply, though? Does that mean I’m adept at grieving now?

I don’t know. I wish I did.

There’s a lot of people I miss in this life. My grandma. My father. My aunt Laurice and uncle Carl. Jeff Wilson. Those are all huge losses, and I will remember them all until the end of my life.

But nothing and no one has ever been more important to me than my late husband. Michael understood me and I understood him. We fit in every possible way, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. We had amazing, wide-ranging conversations, we were both creative (in addition to his writing, he was a great cook and an excellent artist), we both wanted most of the same things — stability, honesty, a deep and abiding commitment to one another, and to be together as long as we possibly could.

We did get almost three years from the time I met him, and two years, two months, and twenty-eight days of marriage. After so much loss, so much sadness, it seemed absolutely miraculous to meet Michael, and I know he felt the same way about me.

I’m still struggling with trying to find a new place to live. I’m also struggling with many other things at the moment, none of them particularly pleasant. But it does help me to know that Michael always believed in me, and he thought no matter how long it took, I would always find a way through any problem.

In short, I’d always survive.

When he was alive, of course, it would’ve been “survive and thrive.” But right now, survival is what I need to cling to, along with the belief that I can, will, and must get out of the current situation and into a better one.

Michael would tell me, if he could, that I have not failed. Not as a writer, as a musician, as a scholar, as a wife, or even as a widow. That I have not failed. So long as I keep trying, so long as there’s even a breath remaining in my body, I have not failed.

I’m trying to keep that thought in the top of my mind, these days, as the struggle continues.

Written by Barb Caffrey

September 27, 2025 at 10:14 pm

Posted in Faith, heartbreaking stories, in general, Michael B. Caffrey, Persistence, Prescient observations, Remembrance, Widowhood, Writing

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In Tough Times, Try to Have Fun (Say the Brewers and Musician Chuck Mangione)

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There’s a lot wrong with the world right now, especially in the United States. It can be tough to remember that there is still good in the world, along with good people who will do their best to make the world the best place it can be.

I mention this because of two things. One, jazz flugelhornist Chuck Mangione passed away at age 84 earlier this week. His signature song was called “Feels So Good,” and it came out in 1978. (I know some of you were not born yet.) 1978 was a time of distress for many. There was “stagflation” going on — both inflation and stagnancy, which is kind of the worst of both worlds when it comes to economics. Many people were struggling, as the work they had didn’t pay enough to live, or maybe they’d just lost their job.

So, why did Mangione come up with “Feels So Good” at that particular time?

No one knows the answer to that but him (and he can’t tell us anymore). The best I ever garnered from various interviews and such was that he felt life was a gift. He wanted to showcase something fun, something upbeat, and something memorable.

He certainly did that, and in spades.

I recently found out that Mangione was not only a trained jazz musician (that was obvious), but had worked with Art Blakely’s Jazz Messengers group before breaking out with “Feels So Good” and leading his own group. The Jazz Messengers are a hard-swinging group playing traditional jazz (mostly bebop, with some late 1950s into the early 1960s expressionism if it made sense to them). This was quite a surprise to me, as you’d never think anyone who’d worked with them (as Mangione did) would’ve come up with “Feels So Good.”

Anyway, I have a second reason that reminded me it’s important to have fun, and here it is: The Milwaukee Brewers 25th Anniversary of their home field (now called American Family Field; originally called Miller Park) included one of the most fun events I could possibly conceive of as a Brewers fan, that being an Alumni Home Run Derby.

The Brewers had many wonderful players in the last twenty-five years, and the Derby brought back ten of them. Eric Thames hit massive homers and was — and still is — built like a bodybuilder. Nyjer Morgan was a speedster, but did credibly in the Derby, hitting a couple of homers. Corey Hart, one of my favorite all-time Brewers, hit five homers in the limited time given to each player, and actually made the two-person finals. Ryan Braun and Prince Fielder, Brewers icons, of course were there, and so was Carlos Gomez with his elegant swing and happy-go-lucky attitude. Bill Hall, one of the best all-around infielders the Brewers have ever had, did credibly also. Casey McGehee was an entrant, but wasn’t able to hit a homer (that was OK with the fans, I read; they were just glad he tried). Brewers pitcher Yovani Gallardo, who won a Silver Slugger award for the best-hitting pitcher when pitchers still hit, looked good and hit well. And, finally, Keon Broxton, a very speedy outfielder and mostly a defensive specialist when he was with the Brewers for a few years, hit five homers to match Hart and gain the final round.

Now, I have to mention something about both Broxton and Hart. Broxton is only thirty-five and never had a major injury to his feet, legs, or knees as far as I’m aware. Hart is forty-three and suffered major injuries to his knees which required surgery. Broxton looks like he could still play, similar to Ryan Braun, whereas Hart looks more like what he is now: a proud father and a decidedly retired player. (Note that I do not mean “out of shape” here. Every Brewers alumni player who went up to bat showed they’re still in exceptionally good shape. Broxton was notable because he almost looked like a triathlete, if that makes any sense, and none of the rest of them did.)

But Hart’s swing is still the same, a long, looping, easy swing, and that’s why despite a torn muscle, he not only attended the Derby but was its runner-up.

Mind you, both Hart and Broxton were not the players thought of to be in the playoffs. Most thought it would be Ryan Braun, Prince Fielder, and/or Carlos Gomez (as I don’t think most fans realized it was only going to be a two-person final; I know I didn’t). Hart was probably picked more often than Broxton, though, because Hart was known to be a power-hitter (Hart, like Broxton, was also excellent defensively and quite speedy before knee injuries robbed him of his speed and flexibility).

But it was Broxton’s day. He won the Derby, he took a celebratory trot around the basepaths, and when he got to home plate, all the Brewers alumni who’d participated fell down (as they did once for Prince Fielder after a booming homerun).

See, the Derby was just plain fun. Lots of good things came out of it, and fans went away smiling even though the game beforehand wasn’t the best (as the Brewers lost to the Miami Marlins, 5-1).

The reason I talked of both things — Mangione’s passing, along with his huge hit “Feels So Good,” along with the Brewers Alumni Home Run Derby — is because they both promoted happiness and well-being. The song is a bit playful (if you ever listen to the whole thing; it’s often sampled now in commercials, which to me waters down its impact), while the Derby sparkled with former Brewers still showcasing their God-given abilities.

Of the alumni, Hart and Fielder both suffered injuries that ended their careers far earlier than they would’ve liked, but on this day it did not matter…they gave joy to the fans, who gave joy to them, and it was almost a picture-perfect version of a positive feedback loop.

At any rate, the fact remains that we have to look for reasons for hope sometimes. We need that. We need to know that it’s not only OK to have fun, it’s necessary.

Chuck Mangione knew that. The Brewers alumni knew that (and still know that), too.

Somehow, I need to remember that in my own life.

I will work on it, as my life continues its major upheaval (as I will be moving soon, destination still unknown).

Written by Barb Caffrey

July 26, 2025 at 12:05 am

Posted in baseball, Casey McGehee, Corey Hart, Heartwarming stories, Inspirational stuff, Milwaukee Brewers baseball club, Music, Prescient observations, Prince Fielder, Ryan Braun, Yovani Gallardo

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Recent Heckling of MLB’s Ketel Marte Troubling

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Folks, most of you who’ve read this blog for any length of time know I’m a baseball fan. And while my favorite team is the Milwaukee Brewers (always has been), my heart goes out to players who’ve suffered from life.

Take the Arizona Diamondbacks second baseman Ketel Marte, for example. Most people wouldn’t know he’s suffered loss, as he often smiles, laughs, and jokes around on the field…but recently, a fan heckled him in Chicago and it upset him dearly.

While I don’t know exactly what was said, Marte’s mother was invoked. It was apparently far beyond a “your Mama wears combat boots” type of insult, which most MLB players have heard since their days in Little League. My guess is it went like this: “It’s a good thing your mother’s already dead, considering what you just did.”

That’s wrong. It shouldn’t have happened.

See, Marte’s mother died in 2017. He still grieves for her. She died in a car accident, which means it was a sudden and completely unexpected death.

Marte is now thirty-one years old. He’s still a young man. But most of his success in major league baseball has come after the death of his mother, and that’s been very hard on him.

Maybe some of you are thinking, “He’s making big money. Why should I care?”

You should care because you’re a human being and you’ve likely suffered loss yourself.

I know that I understand how he feels. If someone heckled me about my late husband, I’d be first livid and then later very sad. It’s hard to stay above such personal insults. It hits you on a raw spot, even years later.

As for the unnamed fan, he’s been indefinitely banned by not just the White Sox, but by the entirety of MLB.

Baseball players are human beings. Their careers are often quite short. The money they make seems nice on its face, but there are a lot of trade-offs that come with that money, including constant travel, the potential for serious injury, the loss of time with their families, and much more. It’s not a job most people would want if they considered all the downsides, including possible interactions like with this dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks fan.

Most baseball fans have reacted the way I have, whether they’ve lost someone close to them or not. They know that insults like that are not acceptable and cannot be tolerated by civilized human beings.

I really wish everyone would try to remember that we only get this one life to live. We should approach people with dignity and respect as much as possible.

So if you’re going to yell insults at a baseball player or other athlete, stick with how they’re playing. Leave the parents, spouses, children, etc., out of it.

But better yet, don’t heckle at all. Life is too short for that.

Written by Barb Caffrey

June 26, 2025 at 12:03 am

Posted in baseball, Criticism/critique, in general, Informational Stuff, Prescient observations, Writing

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Way Too Hot, Way Too Humid…and My Thoughts Regarding the Recent MN Assassinations and Assassination Attempts

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The weather here in Southeastern Wisconsin is bad. It’s been hot, humid, and nasty for the past several days…this on top of the previous few weeks of marginal to outright bad air quality (this for everyone, not just asthmatics like me).

Otherwise, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. The shootings of the Minnesota lawmakers — the assassinations of one and her husband (Melissa and Mark Hortman), and the attempted assassinations of another and his wife (John Hoffman and his wife Yvette Hoffman) — have dwelled upon my mind. It is deeply upsetting that there are people in this country who do such awful things.

I’ve been saying this for years, mind, over the various terrible things that have happened. Not all of it has happened to politicians. Sometimes police have been shot (such as at a grocery store in Colorado) and killed while doing their jobs. (Indeed, there were police who were trying to keep order on January 6th, 2021, who got badly hurt. A few later died and there were at least ten who had significant injuries that caused them to retire early from the police force. Look up Michael Fanone’s name to find out what happened to him, that day.) There have been school kids killed for what seems like no reason whatsoever (Sandy Hook, Columbine, Uvalde).

I don’t know what the answers are to stop these things, especially as what tends to work in other countries does not work well in the United States. (Such as controlling the flow of automatic weapons. Note I didn’t say all weapons. The Second Amendment to the Constitution assuredly believed people should keep some weapons, though at the time it was written, gunsmithing was not very far along and automatic weaponry and semiautomatic weapons were not even a glimmer in a creator’s eye.)

But one thing I do know is, staying silent doesn’t work.

I condemn all of these various things that I’ve discussed. I have condemned them many times on my blog with other, awful things that have happened (including the attempted assassination of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, D-AZ). And I most definitely condemn the assassination of the Hortmans and the attempted assassinations of the Hoffmans. I think if you believe in the Bible, as the shooter who assassinated the Hortmans and nearly managed to kill the Hoffmans supposedly did, that you need to look at the Ten Commandments again.

One of them is, “Thou shalt not kill.” Sometimes that is translated as “Thou shalt not murder.”

The shooter’s part-time roommate (I am not naming the shooter as I never do here at my blog) said in several places that he knew his roommate the shooter wasn’t happy with politicians. But the roommate also said that doing something like this is flat-out crazy. He never suspected the shooter. Pointed out that both he (the roommate) and the shooter had voted for Trump (there was a conspiracy theory going around saying that it was a leftwing activist who went after the Hortmans and Hoffmans for “not being left enough,” but that’s not the case).

I say this to point out that it’s more important to follow Jesus’s proposed eleventh commandment, that being “Love one another as I have loved you.”

I also want you to think about this: If Jesus were here now, who do you think he’d be helping? The homeless on the street, or the billionaires jetting from island to island? Would he be more likely to help the poor Mary Magdalenes of this world (i.e., prostitutes) or would he help those who already have power consolidate it into their two hands and never let it go?

If you honestly think that Jesus, if he came to Earth today, would not try to help the homeless and would not try to help contemporary Mary Magdalenes, I don’t know what to say to you.

“But Barb,” you protest. “Why wouldn’t he want to help the billionaires be better people?”

I think Jesus would want to do that. But if time was limited — and being in a mortal body, time is always limited — he’d help those who obviously needed it first. The drunks. The indigent. The folks trying their best who can’t catch a break. The prostitutes, especially those who’ve been human trafficked.

I do think that current-day billionaires should look at two people to perhaps give them some sort of enlightenment. The first is Bill Gates, who has vowed to give away his entire fortune before he dies. The second is, of all people, Cornelius Vanderbilt, as Vanderbilt’s philanthropy was almost as legendary as his ability to make lots and lots of money.

But as it’s very unlikely any of them will read my blog, I’ll leave the rest of you with this:

Be your best self. Care about others. Pay attention, and do what you can to alleviate other people’s pain. If you can make a positive difference for someone, do it.

That, to my mind, is what any positive religious influence, whether it’s Jesus, Confucius, the Buddha, Joseph Smith, or Baha’ullah, has hoped for us to do.

Also, keep listening to the new Pope. He has his head on straight. (You don’t have to agree with him 100% of the time. I think it’s impossible to agree with anyone 100% of the time.)

For those of you who feel as I do, stuck in the Void and wondering if anything you do will ever matter all that much, keep holding a positive thought as best you can.

One day at a time. Sometimes, one hour at a time, or one minute at a time. Just do your best to help others, and “Love one another the way I loved you,” as Jesus said. (Or as the Wiccans say, “Do what you want so long as you harm none.”)

P.S. The Hoffmans look on their way to a full recovery. I am very glad about this.

P.P.S. In case there’s any doubt, I condemn all violence. As Jon Stewart said last week on the Daily Show (Monday’s edition), “I don’t give a flying **** as to why this man” (meaning the shooter in MN) “did what he did.” (And yes, he said the actual word. I try not to do that, as if I started typing expletives all the time I’d get nothing done. But I did sympathize with Stewart while he used his own.)

P.P.P.S. I also am quite upset that the Hortmans’ faithful dog, a Golden Retriever, was shot. The Hortman children had to make the decision to put the poor dog down. Melissa Hortman, former Democratic Speaker of Minnesota’s lower house, was known for walking her dog, rain or shine, several times a day. That an innocent, loving animal was killed — as he wouldn’t have had to be put down without that shooter doing those atrocious and reprehensible things — in addition to the Hortmans themselves just angers me on a visceral level that I can’t quite explain.

Written by Barb Caffrey

June 23, 2025 at 6:22 am

Posted in Criticism/critique, heartbreaking stories, in general, Informational Stuff, mass shootings, Prescient observations, Religion, Spirituality, Truly horrible behavior, Writing

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