Southern comfort

My absolute favorite TV legal analyst is the inimitable Joyce Vance. When she speaks, people listen – including me. And then I realize just how much there is I don’t know about American history and the law. She’s a civics class, historical reference book and trusted legal mind all rolled up into one fine human being. A constitutional law professor at University of Alabama School of Law, Vance seems to be everywhere, including writing her daily chart-topping Substack newsletter, “Civil Discourse.” She ends every one of her posts with this tagline: “We’re in this together.” Vance also is part of the weekly “Sisters in Law” podcast. And she still has time to tend to family, her chickens, cats and dogs, and knit.

I’m grateful when she takes a Sunday night off. Not sure if this woman ever sleeps.

Last month, Vance chose George Orwell’s 1984 as her Substack Book Club’s first read. I considered joining but thought better of it. Call me crazy, but reliving a 1949 dystopian novel about the risks of succumbing to fascism would push me into the depths of despair and send my quivering heart into arrhythmic clip-clop chaos.

Remember Big Brother, the Thought Police and Newspeak? It’s no longer simply a cautionary tale, George. We are living it. How positively Orwellian.

Trust me when I say that what is happening in our country isn’t new or the result of much original thought. Sometimes I feel as if I’m in a self-induced coma and will soon wake up to find this national nightmare has been nothing but … a dream.

Speaking of dreams, Vance’s new book is coming out October 21. It’s called Giving Up is Unforgivable: A Manual for Keeping a Democracy. Instead of stressing you out, it’s supposed to help us understand how to avoid burnout and exercise the democratic muscles we need to save our Republic.

Now that’s a book I could picture on the nightstand next to Dorothy Parker’s biography What Fresh Hell is This? (which I read in small bites) and my current page-turner memoir, Actress of a Certain Age by Jeff Hiller.

Unless, of course, you’re reading the title on the book’s spine with a certain misspelled word: Actress of a Cetain Age.

Sometimes, all you can do is laugh. Who needs astute copy editors when you can have monumental typos that might actually increase a book’s sales and resale value?

Here we are in late August approaching the end of summer 2025.

Frantic bees are foraging for food, as area cider mills prepare for the fall crowds. It’s almost time to trim what’s left of our hosta plants and other perennials. Thanks to gluttonous deer who have feasted on them since springtime, we have our work cut out for us.

Autumn is my absolute favorite season. It’s the only one I really missed when I lived in South Florida for five years back in the 1980s.

Here at home, once the trees start turning colors, the leaves fall and the night air demands more than long sleeves, my mind wanders into bittersweet territory. Mostly because it reminds me not only of renewal, but also of loss.

This may explain why after nearly 17 trips around the sun, I finally had a dream about my late mother. It was so real that when I woke up, I could feel her presence. In the dream, she had died and no one told me. Well now.

Now I’m no dream expert, but that sounds pretty F’d up. And, no, I’m not googling it. The fact is, the dream didn’t make me feel upset or afraid.

That’s comforting, so I’ll take it as a positive. It was just a dream.

Since she passed on December 1, 2008, I have thought of her every day without fail, but I have never dreamed about her. I have no idea why it occurred now, although I have some theories.

Two weeks ago, Rebecca and I went on another Beast RV getaway long weekend, this time minus the gassy horses and Saskatoon berries, but with plenty of fermented grapes, as in, visiting West Michigan wineries.

Known as the “Lake Effect,” producing world-class wine from this area is indeed possible because of milder winter temperatures, despite the heavy snowfalls.

Think of cool climate and minimal intervention wines such as Riesling. It’s Michigan’s most planted grape, thrives in the cool climate and withstands harsh winters. Unlike us Snowbirds.

So, there we were “glamping” (a.k.a., glamorous camping) at Fenn Valley Vineyards under the Tuscan sun with Diane Lane — OK, not really — but at another “free” Harvest Hosts location in Fennville beneath fluffy Michigan clouds. A cozy small town, Fenville is about 15 minutes southeast of Saugatuck, a charming city known for its vibrant art scene, outstanding perch at Wally’s Bar & Grill and an overabundance of children in strollers.

Our first night, we met some nice people at the winery and even had real neighbors at the campsite: John and Jane from Wyoming, Michigan, and Bob, Susan and their 4-year-old dachshund mix, Peach, from nearby Grand Rapids.

Funny how talking with strangers can be so fun sometimes. It’s an education. Honestly, we felt like experts compared to these RV newbies.

That evening, with a cool breeze wafting inside the Beast, we slept comfortably beneath colorful print fleece throws that my great-niece Elia (named after my mother, who was her great-grandmother) helped us make last year. Mine had red cardinals all over it. Rebecca’s had green pine trees with deer and Frito-Lay crumbs.

Those cardinals could be why my mother was on my mind. Not surprisingly, every time I see cardinals, I think of her and other lost loved ones. Mom, dad, close relatives and friends. It’s oddly comforting seeing that red bird and his mate.

Or, perhaps my nocturnal maternal brain rot was the result of our second lodging location: a quaint, Fennville guesthouse dubbed “Mom’s Place.” It was the perfect spot to call home between visits with friends. Innkeeper Annette was the perfect host.

Whatever the reason, I found myself somewhat unnerved by my vivid dream. I mean, 17 years is a long time. I often wondered if I’d ever see Mom in my dreams again. After so many years, I sort of forgot about it.

When you’re not worried about making things happen, they just happen. It’s how life works sometimes.

I await Mom’s next appearance, preferably sooner than 17 years from now and before I’m 80.

A girl can dream.

As my new best friend Joyce Vance says, “We’re in this together.”

(Main image on this blog post: In an undated photo circa 1927, that’s my mother, Elia, on the right, with her youngest sister Nores in the center, and neighborhood friend Fern on the left. They’re each holding a chicken in what could be their first attempt at cooking polenta and chicken!)

(YOUTUBE VIDEO: “Dreams” is a song from 1993 by The Cranberries, an Irish rock band. Musician and lead singer Dolores O’Riordan wrote the song about her first love and how it made her feel as if she was in a wonderful dream. She died in 2018 at 46.)