The Personal is Political

I did not intend to watch it.

The NY Times was live streaming Jimmy Carter’s memorial service from National Cathedral, and I happened to glance at the feed as they were seating President Trump and Melania. The two were the first attendees in their row, the second, but behind them— was that Al Gore? And next to him, was that Mike and Karen Pence?

The drama was too good to click away from, and I was riveted by Trump’s uncomfortable demeanor as he turned to shake hands with them in what was his first face to face meeting with Pence in four years.. He was still squirming a little when they seated the next guest, Barack Obama, right next to him. President Obama graciously shook everyone’s hand, including Trump’s, as he found his seat. 

Before I could even consider looking at something else, George and Laura Bush were shown to their seats, next to Obama. Bush seemed a bit befuddled, but he shook Gore’s hand and then Pence’s, but he totally missed Karen Pence reaching out to him and turned his back on her to sit down next to Laura, who was next to Obama.

There were two seats left in the row, and I knew who was coming next. The Clintons approached within seconds, and everybody, except George Bush, rose to greet them. Hillary entered the row first with a face of stone, followed by her affable husband and his aw shucks grin. And it was then that President Bush chose to engage: he tried to say something to her, but she flat out ignored him, so much so, that he shrugged and looked away.

The whole group sat in awkward silence, except for Donald Trump. He was talking Barack Obama’s ear off. President Obama nodded and politely and answered briefly from time to time, but he really kind of looked like the guy who gets stuck next to the inappropriately chatty kid— I think he might have shushed him if he could have.

But then? It got even more uncomfortable. Vice President Harris and her husband were shown to their seats, and when she saw that she would be sitting directly in front of Donald Trump, she made Doug change places with her. She did not speak to anyone, nor did she shake any hands. The tension was broken slightly when President and Mrs. Biden sat down, but there was a lot of program reading until the casket was escorted down the aisle and the actual service began.

More about that tomorrow.

A Walk and a Reminder

It was cold, frigid, really, when I bundled up in tights under sweats, a turtleneck under a hoodie, wool socks, and tall boots this afternoon to walk Lucy. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, and a chill wind blew, but I needed the fresh air, so we climbed the steps out of the complex and started a three-mile loop we often walk. 

Our route took us through the neighborhood and across a bridge over the interstate. Traffic on its way to and from Washington, D.C. whizzed by beneath us. The sun peeked out a little then, and I was surprised at its warmth. I could feel it on my face, and through my down vest, it literally warmed my heart a bit.

Even in the coldest cold, a little sunshine made a difference. I put on my sunglasses and kept walking, determined to remember the lesson in the days coming.

Managing Expectations

"The parking lot is clear," I noted as Heidi and I pulled up to Gunston on our way home from Whole Foods. "The sidewalks look good, too."

"Let's check Oakridge," she suggested. Just up the hill, the neighborhood roads were a little slushy, but the school parking lot and bus lane were wet pavement. "Damn!" she shook her head. "It looks like I'm going to school tomorrow."

"Let's swing by Jefferson and check out those neighborhoods," I said, but I wasn't hopeful. 

A little while later, we looked down side streets and checked out sidewalks as we drove down 2nd Street South. "That street looks bad," Heidi noted.

"And the sidewalks are awful," I added.

"But do the sidewalks really matter?" Heidi asked in return. "The school system has no control over them."

At Jefferson, the rec center was open, and all the outdoor parking lots were plowed. The conditions in the neighborhood on the way home were sketchy, though, and those sidewalks? Terrible. 

But on down the road, Randolph was cleared, and then Abingdon was, too.

It all comes down to the neighborhoods, we agreed; surely there would be at least a delay? Back at home, Heidi prepared to go to work: she posted her final announcement, chose her outfit, and showered. Periodically, we checked our notifications, and when the adjoining county announced they were closed, we grew slightly optimistic. 

Around 5:45 p.m., the "closed" notice for today flipped to a "normal operation" notice, and we lost hope. "Not even a delay?" Heidi asked in dismay. "I knew it!" she continued and added a few choice words for the officials in charge of such a decision. Then she texted her colleague.

A few minutes later, she received word that an operation announcement would be posted at 6:30. "Does she know what it is?" I asked, but there was no further information as the minutes ticked away. 

Heidi's phone buzzed. "Closed!" she rejoiced. "Phew! They had me worried."

90 and Snow

You might think that a snow day would be less of a big deal to me now that I'm retired and would be staying home whether the weather was wintery or not. And until today, I might have agreed with you in theory, but I was still a little giddy when the world turned white overnight. 

Of course, the fact that Heidi didn't have to go to work was the first bonus of the day, but we both still set our alarms last night: she to walk with Lucy and their friends in the morning, and I to start the newest 40-day meditation with my yoga guru. But 7 a.m. found me right back in bed, and soon Lucy and Heidi were snoozing, too, and not a one of us got up again until after 10.

The rest of the morning was taken up with coffee and breakfast as snowflakes fluttered from the sky by the trillions, piling up into several inches on the ground. A little after noon we headed out to brush off the car and shovel a bit. As is usually the case around here, we were joined in the parking lot by several neighbors, and working together, we made light work of clearing the snow that had already fallen.

Next on our agenda was snowshoeing. Some years, we toss our snowshoes in the car when we head up to Buffalo for Christmas, but most winters they languish in their bag in the attic, waiting, as we do, for a snow deep enough for them. Today, the conditions were perfect. We tromped up and down in fresh powder,  around and behind the buildings in our neighboring communities, and then back into our own, where we scaled hills and snow banks to make it home.

A fire, a phone call to my siblings, and my father's favorite dinner filled the final hours of daylight and evening. He would have been 90 today, and I couldn't help thinking that this was the kind of day he might have enjoyed, too.

Sunday Lunch

Since today was Victor's last day in town, I thought it would be fun for the six of us to go to brunch before he flies out tonight. 

"I was thinking of making reservations at the Carlyle," I mentioned to Treat the other day. Our family has been going for brunch there since both Treat and Victor were born, usually with one of their grandparents when they were living.

He got a bit of a dreamy smile and a faraway look in his eye. "I haven't been there in ages," he said nostalgically.

I texted the rest of the group a little while later to see if  11 a.m. was a good time. "The restaurant of brunch!" Emily replied, using the name the boys did when they were small.

Our party was in good spirits as we climbed the grand staircase to be seated. "Are you going to have the Squibnocket scramble?" Emily asked. "With the smoked trout?"

"Maybe they'll give us our usual table," I joked, and sure enough, the hostess led us to a round table by the windows, where we had eaten many times. But when we examined the menus that she gave us, we were confused. There was no brunch listed.

When the server approached our table, we had questions. "No, we don't serve brunch," she told us, and the expression on her face suggested that they hadn't for quite some time. "We do have some brunch specials," she added, "steak and eggs benedict or salmon with eggs, but that's all for brunch."

"Not even any beignets?" Emily inquired wistfully, but our waiter shook her head firmly and asked for our drink order.

The meal was very good; the company and the conversation were great, and we had a nice time. In the end, we agreed that we had nothing to complain about.

Except it wasn't brunch.

Containing Multitudes

I took it as a compliment the other night when we were playing Spot the Intro, a fun but flawed game that challenges teams to identify a song from some decade between the 60s and the 10s within 15 seconds, and Emily said, "Wow, you can really tell Tracey is a writing and reading person. She knows a lot of the words to these songs." I also reacted with a moment of sonder when I realized that not everyone interacts with music that way.

But it was definitely that tendency that got me through the movie A Complete Unknown today. Clocking in at 2 hours and 20 minutes, the film depicts the life of Bob Dylan from his 1961 arrival in NYC to his performance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. And that would have been a long time to spend with that asshole, except that the movie gave me the opportunity to revisit the lyrics of songs I have taken for granted all my life. 

Somehow, watching the creation of such songs as "Don't Think Twice," "Blowin in the Wind," and "The Times They Are a Changin" allowed me to really listen to the words, and I was dazzled (yes, dazzled) by the craftsmanship. Dylan's songs are genius: simple but profound, effectively using metaphor, repetition, and word choice to convey messages that are both timeless and timely. 

I totally get the Nobel Laureate thing now. (But I still think he's a jerk.)

Avoiding Labels

"This is a hot sauce I made," I announced as we sat down for New Year's dinner. 

"What's this?" my brother pointed to a nearly identical bottle.

"That is also hot sauce I made," I answered.

"What's the difference?" he asked. "Is it that this one is hot, and that one is too?" he continued dryly.

"I made them on different days?" I shrugged. "They do taste a little bit different."

In retrospect, of course, a label or two would have been handy, but when caught up in creating such condiments, it just seems impossible I'll ever forget what I put in them, even if I'm using whatever happened to be ripe and/or plentiful that day. 

With spice mixes, I'm a little better, and by that, I mean I put the name of whatever it is on the jar, and once last summer, I even listed the ingredients in a chili powder I made, but that was an anomaly. I guess I also just figure it will be me using, and then eating, these products, and I usually season by taste rather than measurement or recipe. In that case, if it tastes good, who cares what's in it?

On New Year's Day, people just tasted the sauces and then picked one or mixed them together, but it might have been nice to know what the comparison was. Tonight, though, I was annoyed at myself when I added a couple cubes of unidentified frozen pesto to my tomato sauce and discovered (by tasting) that in addition to basil, they also contained cilantro and mint. It wasn't exactly the flavor profile I planned for our tomato tart, and I was a little disappointed. 

Not enough to label the rest of though, because really? I'm sure I'll remember what it is next time.