Today I took down my Harris-Walz sign. I am Heartsick. Alarmed. Demoralized. Threats of massive deportation, deep cuts to our societal safety net, elimination of the Affordable Care Act, not to mention the prospect of the US not just swerving but crashing headlong into a wave of isolationism face our country. Having recently retired, I also worry about cuts to Medicare and Social Security.

We are a family of six posed against a backdrop of scarlet and marigold, butterscotch and evergreen. On this highest mountain ridge east of the Rockies, autumn’s main event is in full swing. Ribbons of colors tumble down mountain peaks to meet in Blackwater Falls State Park below. Later we hike to a trout stream, the bravest among us traversing boulders to get a better view of a rustic bridge.

I lie on a conveyor belt which will whisk me inside a cylinder. Despite its formidable appearance, the machine is really just a giant magnet, powerful enough to fling a wheelchair across the room. Some MRI machines are fanciful, disguised as spaceships to distract the patient, making a scary experience more palatable. But this one makes no such attempt.

Today I reached a milestone I can barely pronounce- septuagenarian. I am now officially 70-something, with fewer years ahead than already lived. I love the way my new identify sounds like an exotic pet or constellation. To celebrate I had my toenails painted purple, bought my first ever chocolate-colored bra, indulged in a birthday cake pop at Starbucks, and best of all, cradled my eight-week-old grandbaby Nellie Sage, lavishing in her gurgles and coos.

Nellie Sage entered the world on June 30, my first grandchild and daugher of Aster Chalmers ( my youngest daughter) and Brennan Shoberg. I am beyond grateful for this miracle!

It shimmers like a sapphire pool in the sky. At 1,956 feet, Crater Lake is as deep as Mount Denali is tall. I remember the thrill of glimpsing North America’s tallest peak from a sightseeing train on the Alaskan coast, tussling with other tourists to get my cell phone poised to capture the iconic mountain that is usually shrouded in fog.

I am home. A mere 73 years old, my new house is five years older than me. My small wood frame home- - just under 800 square feet—was built during the halcyon days of this Detroit suburb when houses sprang up like dandelions in a vacant lot, thanks to legislation that awarded mortgages to returning GIs.

We drive northeast of Mexico City on a highway lined with gritty auto supply stores and small factories. After an hour, caramel mountains peek on the horizon when our Uber driver announces we are near our destination: Teotihuacan, the city the Aztecs called “the birthplace of the gods.” My daughter Abby and her boyfriend, Pierre, are joining me for this adventure to Mexico’s most visited archeological site.

Isak Dinesen advised to write a little every day, “without hope and without despair.” Tonight, I write with both.

A man kneels in front of a tank, delaying for a few moments its inevitable path toward the streets of Kyiv. A young couple, the bride wearing a crown of brilliant flowers, pledge their love to each other and then, cradling rifles, pledge to defend their country. Crowds hunkered in a hotel basement sing the Ukrainian national anthem. “Ukraine has not yet perished nor its glory or freedom.”

It always saddens me to take down Christmas decorations.

How many times had I bounded down the stairs, clutching a half-empty Starbucks cup late for an interview?

Spelling bee… the words still set my stomach churning like a washing machine.