The latest offerings from the long-range forecasters have the local neck of the woods above normal for temps, and with average precipitation for the coming winter.

This is what I always prefer to hear: “It will snow every day from December 1 to March 1, with average temperatures around 30 degrees, night time lows around 25. And hardly any wind.”

That might be a bit much. How about a nor’easter every ten days? With some time for pond skating along the way.  Too much to ask?

As long as winter is a season we must deal with, we might as well be able to enjoy it somehow.

 

 

Three million should count for something. It’s not ten or a thousand or even a hundred thousand. It’s not a statistical anomaly, a margin of error.

It’s weird to think that in the end, three million votes didn’t really matter. Though it might go a long way in explaining the uproar since November 8, 2016, why a lot of people aren’t “dealing with” the presidency of a man who shouldn’t be left in charge of a lemonade stand, much less the whole country.

Bill and Louise- not their real names- once lived in a 1970s-era split level, in a quiet suburb of a southeastern Pennsylvania city. Bill was a Navy man, served as a cook on a ship during WWII and endlessly proud of that fact.

Louise is Bill’s wife. Both are in their early 90s, facing various physical and medical challenges one might expect to encounter in one’s early 90s. Bill had an episode a few years back that led to an unrenewable driver’s license and the sale of his car. Louise never learned to drive, or if she did, hasn’t been behind the wheel in a long time.

Bill and Louise have no children and very few nearby relatives. They had good neighbors in their little piece of suburbia. Neighbors who checked in on them, brought them meals, took them to doctor appointments and the grocery store, took over the check book and paid the bills.

A while back, Louise suffered a fall at the house. She never came home. After the hospital came rehab, to which there was a lackluster response. In the midst of all that, Bill needed several hospitalizations which ended in residence at a local nursing care facility.

He and Louise were in different facilities for a time. They are back together now, in a county-run nursing home, in a non-descript room with two beds, a dresser, a television, and a lot of time on their hands.

They fight a lot. Louise is the physical manifestation of melancholy and depression. She misses her “nice things” at the house. Bill sits by, weary and frail yet somehow still possessing a spark, unable to provide consolation or comfort.

There is nothing but time now, for life review and trips down memory lane. There is the stark realization that after a life that has spanned at least nine decades, it has come down to a non-descript room with two beds, a dresser, and a television.

In some ways, each has been all the other has ever had. But now that’s not enough.

A trip to Longwood Gardens is an event pleasing on many levels, especially when the Bird of Paradise, aka crane flowers, are blooming. You can find them in the Orangery- the high-ceilinged main walkway in the Conservatory, bordering one of the manicured lawns.

 

Who doesn’t, on occasion, dream of being freed from the weight of expectations and tradition? Or even the “rule of law.” There’s one for ya- the rule of law. It’s a convenient weapon rolled out from time to time by those who just can’t handle the truth of an ever-increasing diversity of cultures and color and perspective.

Freedom is an illusion. I suppose I could argue that I have the “freedom” to do whatever I want, because this is America and no one takes my guns away.

Freedom is often spoken of as an absolute, or at least a birthright, when at best it is another concept treated in relative terms. Not everyone is born equal, for starters.

Any member of a civil society is not free in an absolute way. There are obligations and responsibilities. And yes, prohibitions. Of course, debate ensues regarding whether or not these things apply to all, or to some more than others.

It may seem that we most days operate with a certain autonomy- no one tells us what time to get up in the morning, we can make a trip to the store or mow the lawn as needed, we can hit the road and get away for the weekend, we can read a book or sit in front of a computer screen or TV for hours on end.  I guess you could call this freedom- it’s what we make it, what we tell ourselves.

But freedom to just do or say whatever we want? That’s never been the deal.

My wife’s grandmother had a stock saying she’d roll out every time we visited.

“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,” she’d tell us at some point. I always thought this was a bit over the top, coming from a “glass half empty” place, and often times volunteered out of the blue. Yet here was a woman who lost her husband when she was 69 years old, and who proceeded to get her driver’s license and just carry on.

There’s no shortage of advice out there, coming from pseudo-sages and self-help “experts” hoping to cash in on peoples’ desperation and vulnerability. Still, it’s easier to take when it comes from someone possessive of a certain resilience, experience, stubbornness, and strength.

Forensic science is a strange pursuit, in a way. It thrives on aftermaths. Its reason for being is to reconstruct something awful that’s already happened, that couldn’t be stopped. Apart from its role in tracking down the perpetrator(s), there’s a part of me that wants to shout, “You’re too late!”

What happened in Las Vegas is horrible. But if history is any indicator, nothing will change. The media outlets have already done their bit- created a soundtrack for the tragedy, taken every opportunity to remind us that this is the worst mass shooting in our history (until the next one), featured human interest stories about the victims, given us pictures of the makeshift memorials, kept us posted on a motive, or the lack thereof.

But with the exception of victims and their loved ones, most everyone has already moved on. With a frequency that rings with an almost perverse pride, the body count is repeatedly acknowledged as a record that most people pretty much assume will be broken at some point. It’s just the way it is, apparently. What we can expect. Because there’s nothing anyone can do about this.

Really?    Well, at least the CSI folks will always have a job.

Sometimes it seems the only motivation for writing comes from a place of anger and upset- as much reaction as observation and reasoned opinion. My own limited experience suggests that this gets old after a while, tiring for writer if not reader as well. If the only reason I write is to rant, then I must consider adding more colors to the palette.

Of course, if a daily rant puts food on the table and Cubans in the humidor and a Mercedes in the driveway…

Just this little inconsequential foray into occasional commentary has given me new appreciation for those whose living is made by trying to report and write objectively and with minimal bias. How do they maintain such high standards without letting emotion get in the way, or being slowed by a lack of inspiration? How do they present themselves in an interesting and engaging manner without selling themselves to the devil that is “entertainment?”  How do they keep peoples’ attention in the era of fidget spinners and endless distractions, and apart from an appeal to partisanship?

Part of the answer, I believe, is possessing a command of the English language. Another key ingredient is, not so simply, an unquenchable desire to find the truth- no matter where that search leads them. And even as, in some ways, it’s all a chasing after wind, vanity of vanities, as the writer of Ecclesiastes puts it. Truth seems to exist in the eye of the beholder, even as we crave absolutes.

To be persuasive we must be believable; to be believable we must be credible; credible we must be truthful.   – Edward R. Murrow

 

After the Marathon bombing in Boston in 2013, the slogan on t-shirts and hats was “Boston Strong.” Much was made of the response of citizens and EMTs and the exhaustive efforts of law enforcement to capture the perpetrators.

I grew up forty-five miles west of Boston and must admit to owning a bit of civic pride as I followed the aftermath and the outpouring of good will from around the nation and world, including New York!

It’s tempting to buy into the bravado of Mark Wahlberg’s line from “Patriot’s Day” where he says “… they messed with the wrong city,” even though in an extended version of the trailer the actual line is something like “Let’s show them they messed with the wrong city.”

Response to tragedy seems somehow susceptible to a certain prideful regionalism, as if the local population is endowed with special qualities that no one else has. We’ve seen similar things in the midst and aftermath of Harvey and Irma, with similar claims for Houstonians and Texans and Floridians.

But isn’t this in reality what humans do, no matter where they’re from? They rise to the occasion, band together, reveal their better angels, do what needs to be done.

Decadence is not a word I’ve ever had reason to be familiar with, experientially. One might associate it with opulence and excess and moral decay- the stuff of Hollywood and drug lords.

The word often gets used when someone is talking about food- something rich, made with five kinds of cheese or pretty much nothing but chocolate.

At home, I have two culinary indulgences- my own pint of Haagen-Dazs and my own large bowl of popcorn. I guess in a relative way, decadence of a sort.

Life is good…