Abort. Now.

When the DVDs ended, I was still watching women losing rights and my country transitioning to Gilead. A real life Handmaid’s Tale is unfolding…click below to read more.

Abort. Now.

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Who Needs the Library?

What happened in Woodstock in 1968 may not be as consequential as what’s happening there now….

Who Needs the Library?

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Resurrecting Jesus

An Easter message, re-posted from two years ago – more relevant than ever.

Resurrecting Jesus

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Carpool Duet

A haunting conversation with a friend trying to figure out what we are called to do during these challenging times.

Click below to read my literary version of Carpool Karaoke.

Carpool Duet

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She is the Color of Autumn

Dolly is the color of autumn
Of falling leaves, forsaken pine needles

We walk together on this fall day
Her color indistinguishable from nature’s hues

She blends in, walking gently on this earth
No pretense, she just belongs

Dolly is the color of autumn
Dolly is the color of love.

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Her Wings Not Strong Enough

She hangs
Luminous melon-green wings

He set his trap
Her crime flying too close
Caught in the web
Of a foe she dwarfs

Helpless against his cunning
She gave up
Her wings not strong enough
Invisible threads stole her freedom

One would not guess
The spider could win
With a web more delicate
Yet more determined

A beautiful creature
Even in death
Did she succumb too soon
Unaware of her strength?

Her captor not present
To claim his prey
I cut her loose
Denying him reward


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Nothing Else Matters

My Vox Populi blog post about the upcoming mid-terms:


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From Ugly to Mean

My retrospective on a recent trip to Canada. I feel compelled to share it because it sheds light on how Americans may now be perceived by people in other countries. Click on the link below:



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Happy Birthday, America.

This essay is my gift to you, America, as we struggle to save your life as a democracy. As we witness the move toward fascist alliances, toward stripping people of the very rights our ancestors sought on your shores, we will continue to defend and protect what you’ve always stood for: Liberty and justice for all. Happy Birthday. (Click on Dangerous below.)


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Last Dance

Club Maplewood, they called it. A dance at the nursing home, complete with disco lights, a Tom Jones-type performer, ginger-ale champagne, and a wide-open dance floor. A dance floor lined with 70 walkers and wheelchairs.

As part of the entertainment, there are expert ballroom dancers performing choreographed routines. They twirl each other around the dance floor as the wheelchair-bound residents sit, solemn-faced, on the sidelines and watch. My discomfort is palpable. How cruel to subject the residents to this spectacle! Do the fancy dancers realize that although they might be superior in their abilities now, the same fate might befall them someday? I am convinced that this so-called “dance” is a bad idea. A really bad idea. I want to leave and take my dad with me.

Then the magic begins to unfold, like a scene from the movie Cocoon. People start to tap their feet and clap their hands. The performer sings to the elderly women, and they swoon. And slowly, other dancers join the pros on the dance floor. The aides work the room, holding up those with walkers who move slowly but in time to the rhythm. Wheelchairs begin to appear, and residents are twirled by partners with two good legs.

I realize at this moment that there is a dancer in every one of us, no matter our age, and even when the flesh gets weak, the spirit remains willing.

The scene is not lost on my father. He comments on how good the dancers are, looking at me intently. “Do you want to dance?” I ask him hesitantly. “No,” he says, giving me a moment of relief before adding, “Unless you want to?”

With much reservation, I wheel my dad onto the now-crowded dance floor. We start to dance, this little man “standing” three feet high in his wheelchair and me in my high heels and business suit. We dance the jitterbug, holding both hands and moving back and forth. Despite his diminished stature, he insists on leading and on twirling me, for which I have to stoop considerably. He grins.

Cameras flash. The scene is nothing less than extraordinary. We dance for the rest of the evening until the last song: Last Dance. And there, at the nursing home disco, I dance what is likely to be my last dance with my father. His eyes sparkle; mine fill with tears.

While I am tired, my father could have kept going, way past his bedtime. We are among the last to leave the event. And as I wheel him down the hall, two of the professional dancers approach him.

“You were good,” he tells them.

“No, you were good!” they respond almost simultaneously. They introduce themselves to him and ask for his name. They tell him they loved watching him dance, that he has great rhythm and so much enthusiasm. They tell him it was a privilege to be on the same dance floor with him.

He could have burst with pride, thanks to their kindness and sensitivity. And I am delighted to have my skepticism proven unwarranted for the second time that evening.

I take him to his little room, and we say goodnight. “Thank you for dancing with me, Dad,” I say, as I turn to go.

“Did you have fun?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond emphatically. For it was truly the best dance I have ever attended.

Excerpt from They Live On: Saying Goodbye to Mom and Dad by Patricia A. Nugent



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