TWO VERY LOOSELY DEFINED WORDS:

Redux: revisit

Re:Dux: all about Dux, aka, the Mister’s mother.

We “redux-ed” to Arlington Cemetery some years ago.  And during that visit, it was totally “Re:Dux.“

As the family gathered at the gravesite to inter Dux’s ashes, we decided it was a perfect time to eat, laugh, drink and share happy memories.   We were there, after all, to celebrate the lives of two quite wonderful people.

After the ceremony, on our way to the restaurant, we passed a building called The Torpedo Factory.  Not surprisingly, it manufactured torpedoes during the war.  It has since been transformed into a very active and creative “incubator” for budding artists.

I decided to pop into the Torpedo Factory and take a quick peek. “I’ll just be a second,” I remember saying.  Dux knew of my propensity to “shop,” so I felt sure she’d forgive this slight transgression.

Those few “seconds” resulted in a purchase which has given us untold pleasure through the years. It’s a big piece.  And it’s since graced five houses.   Most importantly, we have the fun of thinking of Dux every day.

So, we ask ourselves?  Was it pure chance that we were in Arlington when the artist was showing her work?  Or was it Dux, gently pushing us to take that little side excursion so we’d have something to remind us of her?  Something of note?  Something to love?  On our walls?  Every single day?

The answer doesn’t matter, of course.  It all hangs together quite nicely however you choose to look at it.

PS – Should you be interested, I recalled more about Dux in a blog a little over two years ago.

We ask ourselves “why?”   Why didn’t we watch the Olympics or the political Conventions this year?

We’ve always done so in years past.  Why not this year?

There was no good reason for not following the Olympics.  Maybe they were on too late.  Maybe there were too many commercials.  Maybe we just weren’t in the mood for competition.

The conventions are another matter.   We understand why we didn’t tune in and, ironically, it had absolutely nothing to do with politics.

“Back in the day” the conventions were about choosing and electing a Presidential nominee.

Delegates from each state would stand and proudly announce that their “Great State” was submitting x-number of votes for their candidate of choice.

We always had our own favorites at home and we hung onto those votes.  We cheered when they went our way and frowned when they didn’t.  We kept our own tallies.

Put simply, we were involved. Viscerally.  Emotionally.

But now, it seems, the conventions are all about balloons, crowds, placards, and speeches. How many, how loud, how pumped?  It’s all so scripted.  So planned.  So predictable.

And, in a word, at least for us, so tedious.  Maybe that’s why we didn’t watch.

It also might have been a tad past our bedtime.

Two meanings, two pronunciations.  The first:  INvalid:  a sick or decrepit person.  The second:  inVALid:  something no longer current or useful.

It’s the second I speak of here.   At least for the most part.

It all began with a very important piece of mail, sent to a site in Cleveland, OH.  The small package was carefully addressed and over-nighted by the Mister through the post office.  Three days later, having not been received, it was tracked to a dead-letter box in Columbia, S.C. and marked “undeliverable.”    Address determined to be “invalid.”  It wasn’t, of course.  Invalid, that is.

Shortly after that, there were the insurance cards.  Deemed to be “invalid” by someone, somewhere deep in the bowels of Blue Cross/Blue Shield.    They weren’t, of course.  Invalid, that is.

Then, there was the Bank.  Our very own trusted Bank.  As I attempted to pay my bills in a timely fashion, the password was declared “invalid” by their system.  It wasn’t, of course. Invalid, that is.

Now, there’s the mail.  We haven’t had any in several days.  Nary a flier, a magazine, not even a bill.  Have we, ourselves, become invalid?  Like passwords?   Gone as well as forgotten?

I suggested to the Mister that we look in the mirror and see what we see. Will there actually be a reflection?  Are we but mere ghosts of our past?   Do all those people out there know something we don’t?

We’ve not done the mirror thing quite yet.  I think we’re both a little afraid of what we might see.  Or, rather, what we might NOT see.

Utter mortification.  And shame.  “Hang-down-your-head, Tom Dooley” kind of shame.

That’s what The Mister experiences every time he goes to the grocery store.  And he’s the one who always goes to the store because the foot can’t handle all that walking.  Alas.

Ultimately, his mortification is all my fault.  It’s not his. Not even remotely.  And yet he’s the one who pays the price.

See, “Big Sal”, as I was once known, only eats white food.   The mere glimpse of green, yellow or red food is dietetic anathema for me.  This immediately excludes nearly all fruits and vegetables.  Okay, you say, bananas are basically white.  Yes, they are but remember this:  they started off green.  There’s no way I can un-see that.

Fruits and vegetables flaunt their gaudy colors.  There are RED delicious apples.  GREEN grapes.  PINK grapefruits.  YELLOW squash.  ORANGES don’t even bother with all that.  They just went straight for the jugular.

Due to my affliction, our shopping cart continues to look just as unhealthy as it really is. It’s white.  All white.  People stare and we know what they’re thinking.   How can they live like that?  Don’t they know they should eat their fruits and vegetables?  A colorful diet is a healthy diet.  They would surely live longer if they ate that way.

I’ve recently learned that there is something called WHITE asparagus.  I’ll put it on the shopping list this week.  Maybe. Change is hard for older people.  And, somehow, some way, despite the white-food diet, we’ve attained that status.  Go figure.

Well, so can I.

A favorite columnist of ours, who writes knowledgeably and elegantly about our world as he sees it, took some time this week to tell us about his dog and the wonderful life they have together.

If he can write about that in the midst of everything that’s going on, then so can I.

Ergo, today’s blog is a little bit about Basil.  The Cat.  Our Cat.

Basil can count and tell time. There’s no question about it.  He stays on Eastern Standard Time all year-long but we manage.  There are limitations, of course.

He can only count to three.  Three is the number of Greenie snacks he has three times every day.  Fewer than three Greenies per serving and fewer than three times a day, he complains.  Loudly.

He knows exactly what time lunch and cocktails are normally served, and he howls like a banshee if service is late or delayed.

He’s smart and he’s spoiled.  Adored.  Admired and appreciated.  Just like the dog our columnist writes about.

And, he adds, it’s good for us to sit back and relish the things we feel good about.  Those things being, among others, our animals, the trust and faith they have in us, and the joys we receive in return.

So, stay well, Basil.  You are loved.

The mere mention of her name reminds me to keep my elbows off the table, to put my napkin in my lap and to use the right fork.   It’s Emily Post, I speak of, of course.  And fondly, I might add.

This last week, The New York Times’ Sunday Styles section focused on today’s party do’s and don’ts.  I checked quickly to see if they had invoked Emily.  They had not.   

However, I was struck with, and pleased to see, the similarities between Emily’s etiquette suggestions/instructions and today’s.  Here are a few of The Times’ mannerly “dos” for today’s guests.

First, if you told your hosts you’ll be there, keep your word.

Be kind, gracious and thoughtful.  Take a small gift.

Do not discuss politics, religion or pornography.

Identify the “loneliest” person in the room.  Make that person feel wanted, welcome and interesting.

Don’t complain or whine.  Ask questions and listen.

Text, or better yet, pen a thank you note soon after the event.

Except for the new etiquette guidelines for “gummies” and “edibles” at parties,  Emily could have written today’s do’s and don’ts.

Some things never change. Nor should they.

“Is It Time?” The Walrus asks.             `

Is it time to speak of shoes and ships?  Of cabbages and kings?  Or even politics?

That poem, The Walrus and the Carpenter, by C.S.Lewis, is written in Victorian nonsense verse.  Morally, it’s a poem about greed and power.  I’ve always liked the poem, and I especially like the Walrus, so it came as no surprise when he asked if it was time for me to speak of politics. 

Absolutely not, I replied to the Walrus. That’s your job.  But let’s take a moment to recall an instance that shines brightly as political generosity, grace and goodwill.  It may be a long time before we see such a thing again, so let’s revisit it.

The year was 2008.  Senator John McCain was campaigning in Minnesota. He was mingling with the audience and a woman had the microphone.  She said she was afraid of Senator Obama.  That she didn’t trust him.  She went on in the same vein for a bit. Senator McCain gently relieved her of the microphone and said: “No ma’am.  Senator Obama is a decent man, a family man, a citizen.” 

Senator McCain kept his cool and quietly but firmly diffused the woman’s concerns and fears.  In essence, he defended Senator Obama, despite their stated fundamental political differences.

He must have been channeling Ruth Bader Ginsberg who popularized the old saying: “We can disagree without being disagreeable.”

BTW, it’s also good to revisit RBG whenever we have a chance.  The Walrus and I agree about that.

Image courtesy of Art UK