“Shohei Ohtani went 2-2 at the plate including his Major League leading 40th home run. He walked twice. Stole a base. Scored 2 runs. Drove in a run. Struck out 4 batters. And threw 4 shut out innings. And the Angels lost 5-3 on a 9th inning Grand Slam.” Baseball. Wow.

My favorite hat

At any one moment in the period between April and November it’s dangerous to ask me how the Washington Nationals are doing. Thirty minutes later you’ll be looking at your watch and wondering why you asked. You’ll get my opinions on current Nats players and management plus a rundown of my notions about other teams as well. Pretty sure at least a quarter of my brain time is spent on baseball. To whit:

At the beginning of the season I texted my SIL or tweeted (I can’t remember which) that I was paying attention to the following teams this year because I had high expectations: the Padres, the Angels, the Marlins, and the Rangers. All had been polishing and spending on their rosters. And of course everyone was interested to see if the Mets spending spree would pay off.

Well here we are at the beginning of August with eight weeks of regular season left and the Mets are on the ash heap of history – didn’t win a single series in June, the Padres and the Angels think they still have a shot (spoiler: they don’t), the Marlins are hanging in there but the Phillies are biting at their heels, and the Rangers look as bright and shiny as ever. Maybe shinier with the addition of Max Scherzer. Lance Lynn and Joe Kelly went to the Dodgers, Lucas Giolito went to the Angels (really this is not going to help).

My prediction: the Dodgers, perennial whiners, will overcome the Giants (deserving but not quite there yet) to face the Braves (who will bulldoze everything in their path) in the NLC pennant race. At that point, I don’t know – I’d like to see the Dodgers win so they would shut up whining (Cheaters stole from us – yeah they stole from everyone, 2019 was sooo painful – that defeat at the hands of the Nats really stung, so what if 2020 was only 60 games – we won. Say all that in a whiny tearful voice.). The Braves, however, tomahawk chop notwithstanding, are magnificent. This is a team built with thoughtfulness and patience from the ground up. They let their stars walk – Freeman’s a Dodger and Swanson’s a Cub and I bet they both regret it. The Braves ENTIRE outfield made the All Star game. They’ve maintained a lock on the NL East championship this entire season. No team in either League has won more games. With 69 wins (excuse me, while I was writing this the Braves became the first team to 70 wins and then went on to 71) and eight weeks to go, they will likely have a better than 100-win season and while it’s probable the Dodgers will also taste that rarefied air, the youthful Braves seem, well youthful, compared to the Dodgers.

So I would lean toward the Braves in my betting, but you know what they say:  Age and guile can always overcome youth and skill.

Meanwhile in the American League, THINGS HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF HAND. The Rangers are looking good but the Astros are keeping them honest and then there’s the AL East – the winningest division in baseball. The AL Central first place Minnesota Twins cry themselves to sleep at night wishing they could have the record of the 5th best team in the AL East which is the…Yankees. The Yankees are not much better than the Twins but think about it, the cellar of the AL East is better than the peak of the AL Central. And the height of the AL East is the Tampa Bay, err – checks notes – the BALTIMORE ORIOLES.

In April nobody saw that coming. The Rays were winning like they were opening fire hydrants of beer in Boston. What the hell kind of thing is that to say? Go write your own blog. And then week by week, game by game, the Orioles crept past the Yankees, the Blue Jays, the Red Sox until there they were: 67 wins and on their way to a 100 win season. Didn’t they lose 110 games in 2021? That’s not just a turnaround that’s a neckbreaking 180 degree swivel. It’s like the Angelos family was paying them to win so they could sell the team on a high note. And yeah I know that sounded funny but what else can you say.

So who gets the ALC win? The Rangers? The Orioles? The Rays? The Astros (they just re-acquired Verlander after all)? A player to be named later?

So why are the Orioles, the Rangers, the Dodgers, and the Braves at the top with the Astros, Mariners, Rays, Giants, Marlins, and Phillies close behind? Why can’t the Brewers, Padres, and most of all the Angels, get it together?

In the dark hours of the night between 1:00 and 3:00 I’ve pondered this and I’ve come to a conclusion: those first ten teams really like to play together. They play as a team. They play for each other. Oh they love their fans, but they play for the respect of their teammates. No one star sucks all the joy and glory out of the game. (Bryce Harper appears to have learned his lesson with the Phillies plus the Phillies could leave him at a rest stop on a road trip and nobody would miss him.)

Baseball is not like basketball or football. You can’t win a championship on the backs of one or two star players. For starters (funny word choice there) a team needs a minimum of three great and two competent pitchers for a winning rotation and a deep bullpen to even contemplate a playoff appearance never mind nine all-star caliber hitters. And don’t get me started on fielding. The Nationals walked off the Brewers when a ball was overthrown at home plate. Which made me wonder about Craig Counsell. What’s in his mind when he comes to Nationals Park? Does he think about October 1st, 2019 when Trent Grisham didn’t catch Soto’s single to right field and handed the Wild Card game to the team with the least good record in baseball? And does anybody find it funny that both Grisham and Soto are Padres right now?

Dave Roberts (Dodgers), Bruce Bochy (Rangers), Davey Martinez (Nationals), Brian Snitker (Braves), Astros (Dusty Baker) seem to understand this philosophy. Brandon Hyde (Orioles) cut his managing teeth with the Marlins and the Cubs, Skip Schumaker (Marlins) learned with the Dodgers. You see where I’m going with this?

I’ve long maintained that the best thing that ever happened to the Washington Nationals was Bryce Harper leaving in March 2019. His famous misspeak at his Phillies press conference, “We want to bring a championship back to D.C.” was so humorously prescient.

When one player on a team is valued more highly than the others it can have a chilling effect on the clubhouse atmosphere. Superstar Bryce Harper is one example. But how about Anthony Rendon’s paycheck with the Angels? (Shohei Ohtani rebuffed Rendon’s offered fist bump in the dugout recently and nobody knows what that’s about. Uh huh.) And how about the Padres – it’s like they picked up all kinds of random players around the league and thought they could play together. Remember Grisham and Soto are both Padres and I’m not saying there’s bad blood – baseball is baseball – but every time Grisham looks at Soto how can he not remember one of the worst moments of his career?

I’ve come to the conclusion that, at least with baseball, team chemistry is a real thing. Mastering it might be the edge of luck that pushes a team to win a  League Championship or the World Series.

Finally, one last thought: MLB just posted the first increase in attendance since 1998 according to MLB.TV’s Jon Heyman. Matt Sndyer at CBS Sports reports that as of May 31, the average time of a nine-inning game is a reasonable 2 hours 39 minutes down from more than 3 hours previously. That pitch clock, the limit on first base pickoff attempts (I particularly love this one), and limits on the outfield shift have not only speeded up the game but brought more action which makes it more fun.

And that’s why we bought the ticket in the first place.

Now go watch some baseball – there’s only 8 weeks of regular play and 5 weeks of post-season left. And then we have to go stand by the window and wait for spring.

August 2023

(PANDEMIC PART 3)

If a man could be crossed with a cat it would improve man, but deteriorate the cat.

Mark Twain

We learned many things during the 2020-2021 Covid avoidance period. Perhaps chief among these was a new appreciation of cats. To whit, the following:

Cats will drink out of a water glass.

Cats will drink from a running faucet.

Cats will avoid drinking out of a waterbowl to the extent that they will develop a UTI. Better to purchase an electric waterfall cat bowl immediately than to risk the inevitable.

Some cats will sleep on a sunny windowsill until their fur becomes too hot to touch and then go lie by the front door to cool off. Other cats prefer to bake in front of the fireplace.

Some cats will assist with quilting piecing.

Some cats discover that parts are broken and in need of repair. But they soon sort themselves out and return to normal. And then display themselves full length to show that there’s absolutely nothing amiss.

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Some cats will eat butter. Or at least leave paw prints in the butter. Put your butter in the fridge.

Some cats eat plastic. Some will eat tape. Both kinds will throw up the plastic or tape and whatever else is contained in their stomach. Hide the scotch tape. And anything made of plastic.

A treat jar may not be left out on the counter. Ever.

Cats whether visiting or permanently residing with you will kindly check on you when you’re napping to verify that you’re still alive.

Some cats will groom their less than fastidious brethren. Indy once scrubbed the space between Barry’s ears for a full five minutes. Barry did not resist until Indy moved on to Barry’s face and that was too much for Barry to bear.

Cats who have never seen window screens can be in for a horrific experience. Imagine a cat stuck up vertically to a window screen by all four paws. We wish we had a photo of this. But we were too busy trying to get the paws unstuck.

A cat concerned about feeding time will actually move (we have no idea how) a can of cat food up several steps to remind you that cats prefer to be fed. Often.

Some cats want to help you with your computer work. Really, they can be quite helpful in avoiding eye strain.

Mostly though, cats love the warmth of your presence. And your flannel.

August 2021

August 2021

Note: This blog post was begun in July 2020. Things have changed now that it’s August 2021. But not how I felt then and not much how I feel now.

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

                                         -- Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967

That’s the second verse of my newest discovery in the wild world of poetry. It makes a catch in my throat. It makes me want to cry out, “Hell yeah!” It almost makes me sob with the recognition of this feeling in my heart, for it mirrors the despair I have felt for my country.

I used to be the star-spangled kind of girl who got teary-eyed when the National Anthem played at baseball games. Not for me the holier-than-thou, the U.S. has made mistakes, no allegiance to any country attitude. I knew in my heart that to make our country better was a high duty; that to speak out and march were patriotic acts, that to swear fealty to what was such a glorious place — home to the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence and George Washington.

I was so lucky to live near the District of Columbia and be able to experience so much and see so much of history. And when 9/11 happened I knew my country would take a measured revenge as justice for the 3,000 who perished.

And then that patriotic feeling started to fade. The Patriot Act was passed. The Bush Administration manipulated intelligence sources and, aided and abetted by the New York Times, cooked up the second war in Iraq tarnishing the reputation of Colin Powell and sullying every righteous reason for going to war. Body bags and grievously wounded service members started coming home and I remembered the sixties and seventies and Viet Nam. Edward Snowden revealed the truth about the overreaching surveillance of EVERYONE. The Patriot Act was renewed. Military camouflage became a fashion statement. Surplus military gear began to be a part of every police department. The patriotic displays honoring service members became pageants at almost all sporting events and these were paid for by the military branches as a recruitment tool. Suicide in the population of former and current service members became an epidemic. And if you didn’t stand for the National Anthem you were condemned. Every politician ended every speech with some form of “and God bless the United States of America.” The last straw was the constant standing for and singing of “God Bless America.”

Now it’s true that I am an atheist, but I’m quite willing for people who need to say or sing “God Bless America” to go ahead and do it. But it’s NOT, I repeat, NOT the National Anthem. It’s my right not to stand and sing it. As a matter of fact, it’s my right not to stand and sing the National Anthem.

Suddenly, it seemed everyone FORGOT what the dream of America is. Who are these people I started to wonder? Didn’t you ever read the Constitution? Didn’t you ever read the Bill of Rights? Don’t you know you’re an immigrant too? Don’t you know there’s more than the 2nd Amendment? The Tea Party acted like the election of Barack Obama made their country unrecognizable. They were certain all freedoms were being repealed. Their rally on the National Mall was poorly attended. The Rally to Restore Sanity in 2010 held by Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert was HUGE. More than 200,000 people attended. I was there, I saw. I’ve never, ever been in a crowd like that. But finally those strange, scared, angry people found a way to show me what they meant, what they wanted, what would make them feel good again.

They elected Donald Trump to be president of the country that I loved. And nothing will ever be the same. And now my country is unrecognizable. And that pride in a place that would always try to do right is gone. Because my country is doing wrong. Every single day in every way possible and I find nothing to be proud of.

But…this poem, “Let America Be America Again” — this might help me find my way back.

First, of all, let me tell you that poetry is not the pretty, fluffy art form you think it is. It’s subversive. It’s bloody. It’s dangerous. It waits slyly there on the page and just when you least expect it, it will cut you to the bone. It will tear your heart out. It will make you laugh, weep, cry out, shout epithets, or cause cold sweat to drip down your spine. And if you’ve never read a poem that made you feel any of that, you just haven’t read the right poem yet.

… poetry is not a fancy way of giving you information; it’s an incantation. It is actually a magic spell. It changes things; it changes you. And that’s been the thing I’ve experienced with great poetry ever since.

Philip Pullman, The New Yorker

Now I will tell you, this poem is not an easy one to read. It’s long. It tells hard truths. But it’s true in a way that anyone can understand. And it has meaning and truth for everyone of every color, creed, belief, and even political persuasion. Because deep down in your heart you will know it’s true.

O, let my land be a land where Liberty

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,

But opportunity is real, and life is free,

Equality is in the air we breathe.

So read this poem. Re-read it. And do better.

July 2020

Think of the best leather briefcase you’ve ever owned. Maybe it’s one your Mom or Dad carried. It’s leather, it’s worn, but so well made. It’s not fashionable and it’s not even really useful for your purposes, but you keep it and cherish it because, well, it’s quality.

Think about the last time you had a drink at the bar. The bartender saw you were alone. Not despondent or sad, just alone. And she makes you an old fashioned with really excellent whiskey. And it’s ok to be alone.

Think about your favorite old jeans. Think about the last time you kissed the love of your life with deep meaning.

That’s the rush of feeling I get when reading A Drink Before the War by Dennis Lehane.

It’s the first book in a detective series (referred to as the Kenzie-Gennaro series) and I can’t believe I waited so long in life to discover Lehane’s writing. I highlighted the first paragraph and then realized I’d have to watch myself or I’d highlight the entire book.

Here’s the opening paragraph:
“The bar at the Ritz-Carlton looks out on the Public Gardens and requires a tie. I’ve looked out on the Public Gardens from other vantage points before, without a tie, and never felt at a loss, but maybe the Ritz knows something I don’t.”

This might seem slight and insignificant to some, and some might say it’s overwritten, but I love this kind of smooth, vaguely sarcastic style from the point of view of a self-aware narrator. I hear a little saxophone in the background when I’m reading it. Or maybe one of those modern jazz film soundtracks from the sixties. Think Duke Ellington’s Anatomy of a Murder score or the tribal percussion rifts in Jerry Goldsmith’s Planet of the Apes score.

I love you Raymond Chandler, and I adore you Dashiell Hammett, and James M. Cain you’re just the best, Elmore Leonard you’re the master…But Lehane’s words flow over the page like caramel laced with bourbon. (Oh please. Really?) I read a sentence and I hate to leave it for the next one. It’s the smooth, effortless description of a scene. The characters come to life so vibrantly that you can smell them.

Lehane wasn’t completely unknown to me. I’d seen the movies Shutter Island and Mystic River, both from his novels of the same name. But the movie that got me was Gone Baby Gone, Ben Affleck’s directorial debut. Love that movie. Casey Affleck is perfectly cast as detective-for-hire Patrick Kenzie. He wears him like a second skin – he’s that good in the role.

And the Tom Hardy-James Gandolfini film, The Drop from a Lehane short story. This is a film with elegant, slow pacing, a measured reveal and just the right amount of foreshadowing and dread.

Here is the complete Kenzie-Gennaro Series in order:

1. A Drink Before the War published 1994

2. Darkness, Take My Hand published 1996

3. Sacred published 1997

4. Gone, Baby, Gone published 1998

5. Prayers for Rain published 1999

6. Moonlight Mile published 2010

I’ve read books 1 – 5. Why haven’t I read Moonlight Mile which is waiting patiently in my Kindle?  Because then the series will be over and I won’t be able to look forward to another delightful adventure with Patrick Kenzie. I’ll let you know when I read it. But I warn you: I may re-read the other five before I read the last one.

Lehane is currently listed as a producer for the very good HBO version of Stephen King’s The Outsider. But I really wish he was producing an HBO series based on his Kenzie-Gennaro books. Now THAT would be worth watching. Apparently a pilot for a series based on the books was passed on by both Fox and NBC. Maybe his connection with HBO on The Outsider will help. I can dream.

The terms of the President and Vice President shall end at noon on the 20th day of January, and the terms of Senators and Representatives at noon on the 3d day of January, of the years in which such terms would have ended if this article had not been ratified; and the terms of their successors shall then begin.

The Constitution of the United States, 20th Amendment, Section 1

I begin this post with Section 1 of the Constitution’s Twentieth Amendment to remind anyone who doesn’t know (like the newest Senator from Alabama, an embarrassment if ever there was one) that Inauguration Day can’t be moved. Yes I know, if January 20th falls on a Sunday the pomp and circumstance are moved to Monday, January 21, but the President’s term begins on January 20th regardless and they must be sworn in on January 20. So there.

One reason I didn’t write any blogposts during the period from March 12 – December 31, 2020 was because I didn’t want to write one long whine of deprivation and frustration. There are many things I didn’t get to do during that time that I had planned, bought tickets for, saved money for, carved out time for. Nada. Which of course pales in comparison to the devastating losses others have suffered.

With the election of Joe Biden on November 3, my thoughts immediately swung to a quadrennial tradition my older daughter and I have enjoyed and then my heart dropped. Because of Covid-19 (can we just call it Trump’s Plague?) the District of Columbia was still banning (and rightly so, don’t get me wrong) indoor dining. And here begins the story.

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You can see from the photos how much fun this is. But I have to tell you, if you’re not willing to be jammed into a very small restaurant at 150% capacity, this is not for you. If you expect your coffee or muffin or sausages or Guinness to get to your table in a reasonable amount of time, this is not for you. And just remember, you’re going to be seated (if you get seated) with people you have never met. Of course they’re about to become your new best friends. It’s absolutely delightful! In 2017 I considered not attending, but older daughter convinced me that if I didn’t go I’d regret it. How right she was! We were seated with two protestors who had driven up from Florida to demonstrate. They were marvelous company and we were so glad we got to talk with them.

So now here we are. No indoor dining, but even if this weren’t a no-no, the security lockdown for the area around the Capitol would make getting to The Dubliner impossible. <sigh> You can certainly see why I spared you my whining all last year.

Older daughter and I will zoom or facetime breakfast together with the television tuned to the show. Because we’ll be trapped here while she will be two hours south and nobody is going anywhere while the more virulent strain of Covid-19 (Trump’s Plague) sweeps through the land. As my husband put it so succinctly this morning, “I’m sick of this covid shit.” Couldn’t have said it better myself, honey. #MissYouMorningJoe

January 18, 2021

(PANDEMIC PART 2)

A common abbreviation among posters in Reddit, Facebook, et al. is TIL – Today I Learned. Well, in 2020 I learned a number of things. For one thing my capacity to sit in a chair staring into space pouting about my lot in life if not infinite at least has a lot of depth. If it hadn’t been for many of the following, I might still be sitting there. Hence – This Year I Learned:

Brownies. I could devote an entire blogpost concerning the Brownie recipe from Susan Delbert, head chef at the National Press Club. It remains one of the best, most comforting sweet treats ever devised. If you need something to ease your psychic distress, this might do the trick.

Scrambling and Poaching Eggs. The Washington Post food column, Voraciously, is one of the best ways to learn to cook and try new recipes. It’s well-written and on the strength of the prose alone I have been encouraged to try such dishes as Cabbage Braised in Apple Cider (pretty good). But the most interesting columns were on eggs. Apparently I have been scrambling eggs ALL WRONG for my entire life. I had no idea. What I learned from Becky Krystal: salt your eggs (I hold back on salt with everything) and beat in at least a tablespoon of butter (who knew), but my major mistake was using a whisk for scrambling eggs. Never, ever use a whisk. Use a fork. I forget why (here is the article), but when using a fork and beating in butter, these scrambled eggs are delightfully fluffy and don’t stick to the pan at all.

They are so delicious I’m afraid I’ve eaten a LOT of scrambled eggs since then.

Concerning poaching eggs: I love poached eggs. I love eggs benedict. One of our favorite go-to quick dinners has been corned beef hash (Libby’s) topped with fried eggs, but always preferred a poached egg which was an elusive creation. Elusive, no more, after I followed the advice of Becky Krystal again in Voraciously (go here) which was, and I quote, “just poach the damn egg.” I followed the instructions, and voila, perfectly poached and no more fried eggs for us.

Butter. Let me say a word here about butter. Butter cannot be overrated. I once heard a story of someone’s grandmother who ended every meal with a pat of butter as a dessert. Yes, she ate a pat of butter which might seem a little much to some but I’ve been known to just have a pat of butter myself as a treat while cooking. Most Brownie recipes call for 1-1/2 sticks of butter. The National Press Club Brownie recipe mentioned earlier requires two whole sticks – pretty sure this is why it is so superior. And then there’s the butter beaten into scrambled eggs. The movie Julie and Julia (2009) is a charming ode to Julia Child and the simple pleasure of cooking. This quote from that film says it all about butter:

“I cooked artichokes with hollandaise sauce which is melted butter that’s been whipped into a frenzy with egg yolks until it’s died and gone to heaven, and let me say this: is there anything better than butter? Think it over: every time you taste something that’s delicious beyond imagining and you say, “What is in this?”, the answer is always going to be, Butter. The day there’s a meteorite heading toward the earth and we have thirty days to live, I am going to spend it eating butter. Here’s my final words on the subject, you can never have too much, butter.”

Julie Powell on Butter in the movie, Julie and Julia (2009)

Cast iron pan pizza. What can I say? For years I made homemade pizza using the pizza dough recipe in that culinary bible, The Joy of Cooking, but gradually got out of the habit especially since the daughters had left home and our elderly menu seemed to preclude pizza. Plus I mourned the loss of Luigi’s on Rt. 1 – a marvelous restaurant that featured wine barrel dining booths and pizza that has become more glorious in memory than it probably was. I fondly remember the maître d’ singing Lucevan e stelle. <sigh> Luigi’s hasn’t been a fixture in the local dining scene for more than thirty years, having been succeeded by a cosmopolitan buffet, a chinese restaurant, and now a Walgreen’s which doesn’t serve food. But as usual, I digress. Once again, a mention in Voraciously, caused me to renew my acquaintance with pizza. This time the column touted the crunch of the crust made in a cast-iron pan (here). Well having a cast-iron pan and longing for the delights of gooey cheese and sauce and that promised crunch, I gave this a try. The results were, well let’s just say we have pizza once a week now and one of my favorite Christmas presents was a 14-inch cast-iron pizza pan – bigger pizza, thinner crust, same delicious crunch.

Chili. For many years I have been known as an excellent chili cook. After all I won the chili cook-off twice at my last place of employment. My chili recipe is ALWAYS in a state of evolution. The chili recipe that I originally used to economically fill up two active daughters is not the recipe that won the chili cook-off. I have researched chili recipes extensively, most notably with the comprehensive history of chili in A Bowl of Red which has excited in me a desire to visit Big Bend National Park and the Original Terlingua International Championship Chili Cook-off. Again, I digress. For years I’ve been operating with two chili recipes, one made with smoked brisket (a laborious all day project) and one derived from the recipe favored by Lyndon Johnson which is much simpler. At any rate, while in quarantine, I successfully married elements of each to produce a less time-consuming but family-beloved concoction. I even, at the behest of my SIL, added black beans since I’m not entering any more chili contests. I try to keep four quarts in the freezer at all times. Chili season in Hybla Valley is deemed November – April, May through October being just a little too warm or busy to make chili.

Video Production. As I mentioned in Pandemic Part 1, I have become something of a minor expert in creating small videos of readings for my church’s Sunday morning zoomed services. This has become a creative outlet that my husband always says was just lying in wait. (“But what she really wants to do is direct.”) Here is a short (2.5 minutes) video featuring a reading of the poem, “Dimetrodon’s Sail” by Jeff Moss from his book, Bone Poems.

Renewing my love of poetry. This next is really weird. Here’s the stack of poetry books I purchased in 2020:

This probably needs it’s own blogpost. Yeah, let’s do that. But, suffice it to say, this was a notable part of 2020. I could write a paragraph about why I purchased each book and a notable poem in each. But I do think this got out of hand, partly because it was so easy to just order another book from Amazon and partly because I liked getting packages. And don’t think I didn’t already have a collection of books devoted to poetry.

Cats. Two cats moved in with us in August 2020. Because their parents are still nomadic and haven’t found an apartment yet, the cats are still living with us. Prior to this experience, our longest sojourn with a cat was approximately four weeks and it was only one cat. Entering their sixth month with us, Indy and Barry have taught us much. So much so, that in the future they will get their own blogpost.

January 15, 2021

It’s too much. Too much, that Diana Rigg, Honor Blackman, Sean Connery, and now John Le Carre all passed away in 2020. My 12 year old self has died, and certainly her heart is broken.

Robert Vaughn passed away in 2016. I held up pretty well under that blow. And after all, David McCallum is still tottering around at 87 on NCIS so there’s that. (I don’t watch though, preferring to keep him young and dashing in my memories.)

Well what do all these actors, and one author, have in common? They gave life and breath to glamorous espionage in the Cold War. And I was besotted with all things in the world of spies. Before I was a Star Trek fan, my true loves were Ilya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo on The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and I was crazy for CIA agents Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott on I Spy. And Mission: Impossible – now that was THE Sunday night treat.

But the gold standard for spies was 007. When Sean Connery looked up from the baccarat table and said, “Bond. James Bond” he had me. Lock, stock and beretta. Or Walther PPK. When the local drive-in was showing a double feature of Dr. No and From Russia With Love, I sweet-talked my parents into taking me and my almost-equally besotted cousin.

Now please think about this: we were 12. And not just any 12 – small town 12. In 1964. Naive is not too strong a word. Really, it’s the only word. Sheesh.

My tv spy shows gave way to police shows or new fads. But I couldn’t give up the world of espionage. I saw every spy movie possible: the Ipcress File, Our Man Flint. Flashy with gadgets, smoky with fog and atmosphere – I was scrunched up in the middle row of the theatre with popcorn and a Mars bar.

When Goldfinger (featuring the glorious Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore) was released it was a huge hit. And with it came the signature song and lush opening title. Please spare a moment to smile at the thought of 12 year old me uttering the name “Pussy Galore” to my parents. Thunderball was even bigger, promoted with a spread in Look magazine. You Only Live Twice was even more exotic. When Connery left it was a blow. George Lazenby tried his hand at the role in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service with Diana Rigg as the ill-fated Bond girl and wife. But Roger Moore had the savoir faire to wear a tux, drive a fast car, karate chop the villains, and bed the girl. Live and Let It Die. The Spy Who Loved Me. Moonraker. For Your Eyes Only. I can tell you who sang the title song of them all. Roger Moore finally retired and amid some controversy, Timothy Dalton took the helm for The Living Daylights, and License to Kill. Then Pierce Brosnan finally got his turn (originally considered when Dalton was chosen) and performed for four films. It was thought the franchise had run it’s course until Daniel Craig breathed new life into it. Casino Royale was great, Quantum of Solace stumbled slightly, but Skyfall was the reimagining Bond needed.

But I digress. Because I’m trying to tell you how stuck I was to the espionage genre. After I had read all the Bond books in our free-range library – if you had a library card, the librarian let you check it out – I worked my way through non-fiction about the CIA and it’s predecessor, the Office of Strategic Services. I read William Donovan’s book about the founding of the CIA. I read about U-2 pilot Gary Powers and how he was traded for a Russian spy. I read about the British spy scandal. In high school US Government, I wrote a paper on the CIA that garnered the highest grade in the class. Why not? I’d only been researching the subject for six years.

When I was 14 I would have been called Goth if it were the 1980s. I wore a black turtleneck sweater, shorts, tights, and flats ALL the time. And I thought about espionage ALL the time. About being a secret agent sniper. I skulked around the neighborhood. I spent a lot of time in my head pretending and this was my favorite let’s pretend. I even read John Le Carre’s first best seller The Spy Who Came in from the Cold which might as well have been a brick wall. That classic was a little too over the head of a naïve small town girl but I plowed through it any way. Ian Fleming and John Le Carre gave the spy world literary life, both glamorously flashy and grimy down-to-earth. I ate it up either way.

You’ve got to wonder why didn’t I consider a career with the CIA? Never occurred to me. Spies were such creatures of fantasy that world didn’t seem reality based, even though the Cold War was very real and in the news.

But I never gave them up either. Watching The Americans and Homeland brought back those old feelings of excitement and exotic mystery. The ending to The Americans was poignant and bittersweet but the end of Homeland seemed absolutely perfect and totally satisfying. I won’t spoil those – if you haven’t seen either series, be sure to watch to the end.

Diana Rigg and Honor Blackman were the cool girls who wore black and were the equal of any male. (I would have loved Diana Rigg in The Avengers but for the fact that I lived so far up in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains the signal of the nearest ABC-TV station couldn’t reach that far. My husband mourns her bitterly.) Sean Connery was the template for every other spy to follow. And if you wanted intellectual engagement and the precursor to the delights of Homeland, John Le Carre’s creatures were devious and real. They all brought the outside world to me. It might have been a fantasy world, but it was certainly larger than a town with barely 5000 population. (I said it was small.)

Last night we watched the pilot episode of a British series, Alex Rider, about a teenage spy out to avenge the death of his uncle. I think teenage me would have loved him.

January 12, 2021

(PANDEMIC PART 1)

Don’t know for how long or how much. Decided to not burden you with the seething anger I felt constantly in 2020. The year wasn’t a total waste and had two or three wonderful points, but the year was essentially stolen by a confluence ponding of events made almost unendurable by the incompetence, mendacity, and out and out selfishness of both the highly-placed-few and the ridiculously ignorant fools aspiring to foist their victimhood on the rest of us. Because of them, this year caused me to say and think the most foul ideas that only the possibility of a follow-up visit by the Secret Service or the FBI has made me pause in writing them down.

I began the lockdown by starting the following diary because this is only going to be three or four months, right? RIGHT?

But here are the personal good points – remember I mentioned there were two or three?:

With the advent of the necessity of zoom for church services, my minister asked me to do a reading in April. Our Household prides itself in many things, two of which are our tech savvy (ok, the husband’s tech savvy) and our apparently infinite capacity to make something simple much, much more complicated. We gathered microphones, tripods, made cue cards, and produced an acceptable 4-minute iPhone video for a reading for the church service. Rave reviews. This became a focus of activity throughout the summer of 2020 and I produced several videos culminating in one in which I turned myself into a dinosaur. The best part was, it got me out of my funk at least partially.

Having been laid off and NYC becoming a ghost town, younger daughter and partner wisely made the decision to leave. Packed up a U-Haul and the cats and moved in with us August through mid-November which was a delightful time of reconnecting since time with younger daughter had been on the slim side since they moved to NYC three years before. And the cats were an added bonus. This idyllic time ended abruptly when partner got a job in Richmond and they moved in with partner’s family in Richmond. However, until they find a Richmond apartment of their own, we get to keep the cats.

Since all travel, baseball games, concerts, and volunteering was suspended, there was nothing standing in the way of getting my right knee replaced. We had made a carefully organized trip to a friend’s Maine cabin in August, but the knee became so painful and unreliable (had to return to using a cane) that upon our return I made an appointment with the surgeon and scheduled the surgery in October. And after all – we had live-in assistance with younger daughter and partner. Best decision of the year, recovery was speedy, and while there is still some residual stiffness, it’s a vast improvement over the alternative, so much so, that the left knee may be replaced in 2021.

And finally, 2020 might have put me over the edge entirely (jury is really still out on that one) if it had not been for my grandson. You may have grandchildren but trust me, he is the paragon that all other grandchildren will be measured by. He was born as the Nats were at their nadir in the 2019 season but upon his appearance in the universe the Nats magically pulled themselves together and won the World Series. Since then his smile alone is the antidote to every kind of gloomy day. His giggle cures every evil notion. His cheerful lilting babbling is on the verge of clear speech. Now that he walks and has outdoor boots his delight in splashing in a puddle is magical. His mother and father are the best parents ever. A child this explorative and active needs much more space than a condo, so two weeks before Christmas the three of them decamped to a large community near Richmond. The new abode is a four bedroom with a front porch, deck, and screened-in porch on one-third acre, and a five minute walk to the lake.

So 2021 will see a new groove in the pavement of I-95. And maybe I’ll find a new groove or get my old one back. Hey, it’s 2021 – anything could happen.