A two-day rainstorm is a magnificent gift. So far, close to an inch has fallen, and the shrubs and garden plants look drunk. No wonder: after a two-month drought, I feel kind of drunk too.

I managed to soothe Chuck into letting me sleep in a little this morning, and now the two of us are cozily curled up together in our couch corner, listening to the slow click and tap of raindrops. Sunday morning. Rain, hot coffee, a bowl of kitten chow, and a pal. What could be more luxurious?

Yesterday's lunch at the seafood warehouse was delicious and also very amusing. The company is Japanese-owned and specializes in processing urchins (uni) and sea cucumbers for the Asian market. But they are also open daily for lunch. We bought trays of sashimi, whelk, some cooked rice, some nori, and carried them all upstairs to the employee break room. The price was reasonable, the fish was off-the-boat fresh, and most of the other diners appeared to be Japanese. A sign on the wall informed us: "Do Not Drinking." I can't wait to go back.

Look how wonderful it is to spend time with the gifts of other cultures. Yet while I'm peacefully eating Japanese food in Maine, the residents of Pilsen, my son's Chicago neighborhood, are petrified. The area is majority Mexican American, and people know that Trump is targeting them--these modest families, pushing their grocery carts through the aisles, walking their children to school. I love that neighborhood so much, and I am sick over the thought of ICE agents and National Guard troops terrorizing it. And of course I am scared for my son and future daughter-in-law, who are white American citizens but also highly likely to intervene in any wickedness they see.

Well, what can a parent do but quietly stand back and say, I raised a righteous child. And now his righteousness is being put to the test.