By Midge Pierce

March was birthday month in my family. I share mine with the best present ever, my favorite only grandson.

Given that I have years to spare and he has so few, he got dibs on spending our special day with a galaxy of preschoolers sharing four-year-old humor in outdoor voices at the world’s largest Lego display after which small ninja-chocolated wookie warriors slaked their sugar fix with stormtrooper cake and Chewbacca cookies.

With my aging clock sprung forward, I thought the Force would be with us by April. Alas, it’s no joke that in our up-is-down world the Disabler-in-Chief seeks to fuel fighter jets with empty bellies, hungry souls, liberty and justice for all. Meanwhile, down the road, Salem threatens to slip mitts into my thinning pockets to feed the fatted PERs calf.

Either way, I’m stuck, as much a tech dolt as ever. This is problematic for my boundlessly patient son-in-law on call for wee people and annoying mother-in-law’s needing their luddite fixed at all hours.

In my defense, I resist cozying up to electronics.  I get no rush from their cold companionship or solace from the blue light that messes up circadian rhythms – happenstances that pale compared to what invisible rays do to brain cells and sex organs. All in all, sleeping, eating and socializing with devices – even the shiny new ones I  bought to replace those I broke – is not worth it.

Perhaps this is why I shrugged off cryptic warnings from a fan to secure my email against hackers, deep-pocketed developers and Oregon’s 1000 Friends who-are-no-fans-of-mine practicing the dark arts of Infill persuasion and personally maligning me for opposing demolition that does nothing to cure Portopia’s affordability crisis. Or, maybe I’m just excited to have readers.

Really, I should be cautious now that Kelleyanne is convinced that The Donald’s microwave has spy eyes. But I am an open book:

I love woodsy walks, independently-owned newspapers and kale in all its crunchy delights from mangoed to baconed, which probably defeats the purpose. My kale jones signals spring gardens are nigh.

I propose banning heavy packaging with endrocine-disrupting plastics and choking hazards.

I support preservation of leafy neighborhoods that absorb Co2 and gracious homes I can admire, if not afford. Also, mortgage deductions for neighbors who live on corner lots that once multiplexed, rob kale of solar.

I am baffled by Infill that houses new arrivals by displacing the old. Maybe longtimers who have invested life savings in Portland could live in county-paid granny flats. At least Let them eat Cake.

I believe misguided Robin Hoods do not understand what it takes to remedy a basement waterbog in order to build the ADU that might house them.

I am tired of apologists for street crime, trash everywhere and online barbarisms.

I suspect global warming will melt the ice flow reserved for me by those 1000 no-longer-Friends-of-mine, an entire generation of Millennials and often, my own family.

Let me be clear. I love Millennials. Most everyone in my family over 2.5 feet tall is one. Luckily, they are housed.  I want all those who aren’t to have an affordable roof over their heads – just not the one in which I happen to be growing old.