December 29, 2017--Predictions for 2018

As the new year looms, the news media have been looking back over the past year. Much of that review is political, some elegiac. They list those who died, mainly from the entertainment world; and this year they are devoting a lot of air time to reviewing Donald Trump's first year as president.

Yesterday on CNN and Morning Joe, while reviewing the year, in addition to talking endlessly about the Mueller probe, the tightening of the noose around Trump's inner circle, and the passage of the new tax bill, unable to control themselves, they even made lists of his top-ten tweets. It's come to that.

Since I've had it up to here with most things Trump I will resist doing that.

I used to enjoy watching the McLaughlin Group, a weekend TV talkshow hosted by the curmudgeony John McLaughlin. Each show ended with him asking his panelists for predictions. As his guests made them he would tell them which ones were right and which, his favorite, were wrong. Then, ex-priest that he was, he would make predictions of his own, declaring all of them, of course, "ontologically certain."

I'm not that good at the predictions business and so will acknowledge in advance that most of the ones below would not please McLaughlin. In spite of this, to make them feels like fun and I could use some fun.

So here are my predictions for 2018--

Before the end of his first term, President Trump will not have an opportunity to appoint anyone else to the Supreme Court. He might have his eye on 110 year-old Ruth Bader Ginsburg, but I know these Jewish ladies and she is going nowhere fast.

Speaking about terms in office, don't get you're hopes up. Trump also is staying put and Mueller, whose report will be issued a month before the midterm elections, in September, will not find enough evidence to indict Trump. He will, though, cite him to be an "unindicted co-conspirator."

Son-in-law Jared will be indicted for lying to the FBI and Trump promptly will pardon him. This will precipitate a "constitutional crisis." Minimally, we'll finally find out what a constitutional crisis means.

It, though, will mean that the Trump stock market bubble will burst. Expect the Dow to lose 25 percent of its value. So hold onto to your cash and be prepared to buy in next fall when this happens.

These events will contribute to a Democratic landslide in November. Expect to see them regain control of both houses, unless another dozen Democratic congressmen are forced to resign because of not being able to keep their hands or tongues to themselves. 

Like Lyndon Johnson, Trump will decline to run for a second term, citing evidence that he has successfully reversed every single one of Barak Obama's initiatives and that means he has erased Obama from the history books and thus America is great again and there is nothing more for him to accomplish. 

Senator Rubio will defeat Steve Bannon for the Republican nomination and will begin to appear in cowboy boots so no one ever again will call him "Little Marco."

At least half the newly elected Dems plus Anthony Weiner will immediately begin to seek the nomination for the presidency. They will join the 17 already reviving up their campaigns. 

Longer term prediction--neither Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders, nor Elizabeth Warren will win the nomination. The twin Castro brothers will. Both of them will be nominated. Voters will get two for the price of one and taxpayers will save all sorts of money as there all be no need to hire a body double to protect whichever one is the actual president. We also won't need a Vice President. More taxpayer money saved.

And, no, Hillary Clinton will not run. It's more likely that she'll be locked up than Trump.

Omarosa will get a $10 million advance for her tell-all book, and it will be number one on the NY Times best seller list until 2019, followed by Sean Spicer's tell-all book, followed by Anthony Scaramucci's tell-all memoir, followed by Kellyanne Conway's. She will have resigned in May to get in on the lucrative tell-all action.

Alabama, the Crimson Tide, will not win the college football championship in 2018. Clemson will. There's a limit to what one can expect to happen in one year in Alabama. Almost electing a pedophile to the Senate is for them accomplishment enough.

And forget the New England Patriots. The won't get to the Super Bowl much less win.

But the Yankees will make it to the World Series which will suggest that the moon is again in the seventh house.

And, in case I forget to mention, Ruth Bader Ginsburg will still be sitting on the Supreme Court. She may no longer be living, but there she'll be. For a preview, look carefully at the picture below.

She's Not Praying

December 28, 2017--AMAZON

Streets here can be so crowded that there are times of the day when wobbly me is better off not venturing out. 

Forget the roadways. Traffic is at a perpetual crawl. I read in the New York Times a couple of days ago that the average speed for vehicular traffic is now 4.7 miles per hour, not much more than walking speed, down from 6.5 mph just five years ago.

Keep this up and we will soon descend into a perpetual state of gridlock.

What to do?

Some are calling for congestion pricing--charging cars and trucks for the use of the streets--we are charged for parking so why not for driving? 

They are doing this in London and other places and some claim things have gotten marginally better. Those calling for this in NYC say the city and state can use the money collected to fix the deteriorating subway system. If that system gets worse (and it will) think about the consequences for car and truck traffic.

Others of course are disagreeing. They think it would be bad for business just as tax increases cause businesses to leave town, move south, go offshore.

More objective analysts are attempting to understand what is happening, what is causing this accelerating crash of the city's infrastructure. For the subways that's easy--people who have responsibility for maintaining the system have ignored the deterioration, kicking the serious and cascading problem down the road. Or tunnel.

Others blame the exponential proliferation of Uber and other new for-hire car services.

Yellow cab licenses for decades have been limited to 13,600, whereas the new car services have grown to103,000 vehicles prowling the streets--often without passengers and this, some claim, is primarily responsible for the crisis. They note that things were better just four years ago when there were "only" 47,000 affiliated with Uber and other emerging ride-share companies.

There is one more thing not mentioned--Amazon. Amazon, the on-line e-commerce behemoth. 

I should be the last one to blame Amazon for anything. We have an array of financial investments, including in stock funds, but only one individual stock. Amazon. Some time ago I thought that Jeff Bezos, Amazon's founder and CEO might turn out to be the world's best businessman. All time best and now richest man in the world. Other than Vladimir Putin. And so. I said, "Let's get some. Amazon stock." That obviously turned out well.

But self-interest aside, I think Amazon is a major contributor to the traffic mess.

Here's why--

Their package distribution system, which at the last link in the supply chain, requires delivery men to get your order from the truck to the lobby of your building.

And that's a lot of packages that require a lot of trucks in a place as densely populated as New York. Our building, for example, which has about 215 apartments is being buried in packages. We needed to renovate the lobby last year, minimally to quadruple the size of the package room. The doormen say our building is getting about 200 packages a day. Including, I need to confess--for us at least one delivery a day.

Books, clothing, shoes, groceries, beverages, paper goods, cosmetics, vitamins, small appliances.

To expedite this flow of deliveries, about a year ago, along many blocks of lower Broadway, Amazon cordoned off parking spaces with red traffic cones and semi-legally moved a fleet of trucks into those spaces. 

Along with the trucks--many apparently hired from companies such as Enterprise (look for Bezos to take them over)--comes a platoon of delivery men who fill another lane of traffic with their unloading and stacking of packages more than six feet high onto hand trucks which then get pushed along the sidewalks, contributing to foot traffic congestion.

It is true that we do get either same day or overnight delivery for our bath salts and probiotics, but at some expense to other aspects of our daily lives--for example, not being able to drive or walk. 

In the meantime, CEO Bezos, as of yesterday, is worth about $100 billion. 

December 27, 2017--Lock Them Up

I know in advance that I'm going to get into trouble for this one. Therefore let me approach it carefully--

Unless you were checked into a hotel yesterday you probably didn't see USA Today. Therefore you would have missed the lead story, "Justice Probe Looms As Possible Landmine for Mueller."

The probe is not the Mueller investigation but one underway concurrently, largely out of the headlines, being conducted by the Justice Department's inspector general, Michael Horowitz, to investigate the government's contentious handling of the Hillary Clinton email inquiry. 

Theoretically these two investigations could proceed on separate tracks. But daily they are being conflated. In part because Donald Trump, his lawyers, Trump flacks in Congress, and especially Fox News are using what the inspector general is turning up (the FBI investigation of Clinton's emails, it must be admitted, was botched) to beat up on the independence of the Mueller probe.

Most damaging to the credibility of the investigation of Trump and his inner circle is the case of two members of Mueller's staff--FBI senior counter-intelligence agent Peter Strzok and bureau lawyer Lisa Page, who worked for both investigations and, here's the looming problem, Strzok and Page are a couple and exchanged personal emails on government servers that disparaged President Trump, thus calling into question aspects of Mueller's emerging findings.

Fox folks like Tucker Carlson, Laura Ingraham, Sean Hannity, and the preposterous hosts of Fox & Friends (Trump's favorite morning TV program) are all over this as have been the bloviating rightwing radio talkshow hosts. Some have been calling for Mueller to be taken out in handcuffs. "Lock him up."

In truth, this is troubling to the Mueller investigation as it calls its fair-mindedness into question. Even though Mueller himself is a Republican that does not inure him from semi-legitimate charges that (some of) the work of his team is tainted.

So, here's my thought--

Rather than resisting the investigation of Hillary Clinton and, more broadly the Clintons, Democrats and liberals should support it. 

There is enough credible concern about her tenure as secretary of state and of the Clinton Foundation that any independent-minded person could responsibly call for all of that to be looked into.

It also would be politically smart to want this investigation to proceed. It is hypocritical to call for a close examination of Trump and his people while calling the Clinton probe political persecution.

We need to keep an eye on the big picture--the investigation of Trump and ultimately holding him and his enablers responsible for a host of offenses. 

Just as Al Franken needed to be pressed to resign in order to, with a straight face, demand that Roy Moore in Alabama be held accountable for his offenses--even though they were not morally equivalent--Trump and Hillary Clinton should be held to the same standard.

December 26, 2017--Merry Jack

"At the risk of spoiling your holiday, I thought to give you a call to wish you a merry whatever."

"To you as well," I said to Jack, "In fact I was thinking about you last week as your president and a very wimped-out Republican Congress passed that so-called tax reform bill."

I heard Jack trying to suppress a laugh. "'So called?' There are all sorts of reforms in it but not ones you like, so instead of acknowledging that you make fun of it. You don't consider the cut in corporate taxes to be a reform? If not, I don't see what you would you would see as a reform."

"Genuine and permanent cuts in taxes for the middle class, for example. This version is tipped way to the benefit of wealthy people like Trump himself who have large real estate assets and tens and hundreds of millions to pass along to their children when they die."

"I read what you wrote last week about the doubling of the standard deduction and raising the child tax credit," Jack said, "Even you agreed that it could so help lower-income people that it could turn out to be a political benefit to Republicans come the midterm elections next year. And of course 2020."

"It's true that I did speculate about that, but all the independent analyses of the bloated, nearly 1,000-page bill is that it's not only full of loopholes and carve-outs for special interests but whatever cuts middle income people will see, after a few years, will be ratcheted back and they will have to deal with tax increases."

"What did you call this? 'Speculation.' What's that worth? Speculation is another way of referring to your opinion. You love lecturing people about that. You're the one who rails about confusing facts with opinions. But now you don't have facts to back up your case but just opinions. One thing though I'll grant you is that no one knows for sure the full effect of something this huge. Especially what you and your friends mockingly say about the consequences of trickle-down. You know your history--the Reagan tax cuts rescued a very weak economy that he inherited from Jimmy Carter. There was a spurt of growth and a dramatic reduction in inflation."

"And, pay attention to this, a tripling of the national debt. Like the current bill, it wasn't paid for. The Trump tax bill will add up to $2.0 trillion to the debt. Ditto for George W. Bush's tax cut. It led to the Great Recession and a doubling of the debt. You guys call us tax-and-spend liberals. I call you tax-cut and spend conservatives. At least with someone like Bill Clinton and, for that matter, your pariah, Barack Obama--both Democrats by the way--there was growth and in both their cases a lowering of the deficit and debt."

"You call Obama's two percent of annual growth to be a healthy economy? It was during his time that the middle class got creamed. Especially men."

"You're ignoring what he inherited from Bush. The world's economy was about to go over the cliff. You guys are good at glomming over unpleasant facts."

"And you're not? How about the facts of economic growth over the past year? Trump's first year. How come you never want to talk about that? Look at the stock market and employment numbers. You and your friends say it's the result of momentum from Obama policies. That Trump had nothing to do with it. Fess up--if the economy had crashed this past year wouldn't you be blaming Trump? One thing you specialize in is talking out of both sides of your mouth."

"That's the way politics works. We're all guilty of engaging in spinning." That much I granted to Jack.

"And haven't you been a huge beneficiary of the run up in the value of stocks? How's your 401(k) looking these days? I assume pretty good. I don't hear any complaints about that."

I chose not to baited into talking about that with Jack but instead said, "Another thing you're conveniently ignoring is that tax legislation doesn't exist in a vacuum. By severely restricting deductions for state and local taxes and capping how much mortgage interest people can deduct millions of middle class people will not be happy with what they see about the value of their own assets. The value of homes, the major asset of most people, is expected to decline by as much as ten percent. And this will not just be in blue states as Republicans love to chuckle about. Millions in Texas and Florida and Arizona, to mention a few red states, will also see big declines in the value of their homes. I admit that the major hits will be in Democratic states like New Jersey and California and suburban parts of New York. High tax, high inflation states. But Republican home owners in those states will also be hurt."

"And here I thought I was just calling to wish you a merry Christmas and poke you about all the people on TV ads thanking Trump for allowing them to celebrate Christmas. About that you and I are of the same opinion. This is just ridiculousness."

December 25, 2017--Merry Christmas

For those of you celebrating, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. I didn't need President Trump's permission to do so.

Down Day

It's quiet and toasty here. I am feeling lazy and want to crawl back into bed. I'll be back Christmas morning.

December 21, 2017--4:01 In the Morning

It's 4:01 in the morning and as I do when I wake up so early I turned on the radio to get the news. To see if we're at war with North Korea and how the Knicks did last night. (They didn't play and we're not--yet.)

On all-news WINS, the first thing I heard was Senator Orrin Hatch at the victory-lap celebration President Trump organized yesterday to gather kudos to himself after 100 percent of Republican House members and senators voted for the new tax bill.

Orrin, who needs to retire immediately, said, "You're a heck of a leader [meaning Trump]. You've done everything you promised."

I waited for the list of accomplishments but they were not forthcoming. Just waves of love. Speaking about love I was glad pathetic Lindsay Graham didn't grab the mike. It's not a lot of fun getting nauseous on an empty stomach.

I switched to another station and there was some Democrat leader gushing about how this disgraceful piece of legislation will turn out to be a political blessing in disguise for progressives. Once Trump people see how little their taxes will be cut they will feel betrayed and vote in November to flip both the House and Senate to the Democrats.

Dream on, I thought, which is not an inappropriate way to put it at, now, 4:07 A.M.

I'm not so sure "average" Americans will see their taxes lowered so little. Or actually raised, as some on the left are claiming and hoping. Those of us wishing for this may have a rude awakening. Again, as it's now 4:11, not a bad way to think about this.

Here's how things will play out, noting up front that I see this bill to be a disgrace. Even if some middle-class taxpayers will see some cuts as it plays out it will continue the redistributional process begun during Ronald Reagan time (when Orrin Hatch to that point had never seen such a heck of a leader)--the rich pay less while the bottom half pay more. 

First, as early as February most workers who have taxes withheld will see some increase in their take-home pay. Maybe as much as $50 a week. 

This in part will be because the Trump people who will create the withholding tables will sweeten them by front loading them--these workers will find more in their paychecks than they should in order to trick them into seeing the value of the tax cuts to them. When they file their 2018 taxes in early 2019 they will not get any refunds but likely will have to ante up more. By then, if Trump is still around, he'll blame this on Obama and Hillary. And Robert Mueller, if he's still around.

More ominous for liberals who are looking forward to the Trump tax cuts imploding will be the effect of the doubling of the standard deduction.

For couples that will amount to nearly $25,000 per year. For many of the 31 percent who currently itemize, this bump up will amount to a significant tax cut. And it will be a good deal for many more. Perhaps another 10 to 20 percent will stop itemizing because the standard deduction is better for them. As will be the extended tax credit for children. Using the standard deduction will make it much easier to file and, in many instances, will not require an expensive accountant to do the filing. If the number calculating their taxes this way approaches 50 percent, that's a big political story.

Finally, as with the Reagan and Bush tax cuts, folks like me (professionals, managers  government workers) who are progressives and say we oppose the regressiveness of these previous tax cuts, we were actually great beneficiaries of the lowering of the tax rates and the exemptions and loopholes that were laced into the legislation.

This will be especially true for retired people who vote disproportionately. 

In other words, don't expect a tax revolt. It will not get the political job done either next year during the midterms or two years after that. We need to do what many liberals in Virginia did--get out there and run for school boards and state legislatures. Those of us who can't or won't do that, we need to be consistently activated. We can't sit back and wait for things to get better because, on their own, they won't.

As for me----it's 4:49 and time to try to go back to sleep. No radio, and no more Orrin.

December 20, 2017--Seven "Dirty" Words

Back in 1976, the comedian Lenny Bruce claimed he had been arrested for using seven "dirty" words in his act. In a show of comic solidarity, George Carlin came up with a funny routine that included all seven.

If you're curious, here is the list in alphabetical order, which will help you figure out the ones I've partially bleeped--

C*********
C***
F***
Mother******
P*ss
S***
T*ts

As a sign of the times, now most comedians and scriptwriters use these quite casually. And a number of the seven can be used pretty comfortably in mixed company.

In a similar fit of mind control, in this instance with much more worrisome implications, the Trump administration has forbidden the CDC (Center for Disease Control) to use a new list of seven words. 

You can come to your own conclusions as to why the Trumpians would promulgate such a pathetic and troubling list. The forbidden words are--

Diversity
Fetus
Transgender
Vulnerable
Entitlement
Science-Basded
Evidence-Based

Compared with the Lenny Bruce list, none need bleeping and each of these words are fraught with meaning. Diversity? Vulnerable? Entitlement? Fetus?

I suppose when talking about fetuses, for example, the CDC now needs to refer to them as "the unborn."

December 19, 2017--Snowbirding: Mothercare (Originally Posted April 21, 2008)

Though you hope when your time comes you will be ready, there is in fact nothing that can prepare you for when your mother has a life-threatening condition. As mine did again three weeks ago.

A small stroke early in the winter had brought us to Florida in the first instance, and then there was that remarkable recovery and our promise to spend more time with her during her last days that contributed to transforming us from visitors into Snowbirds. Fortunately, up to now, those final days have stretched to weeks and months, and years.

For most of us, our experience with our mothers and sickness is from when we were ill and she was selflessly there and, you thought, would be, eternally, to care for and protect you from threat and danger. So my first sight of her recently in the emergency room and then a day later in the Intensive Care Unit to which she had been transferred shook me to the core.

There were four phone messages when we returned from breakfast at the Green Owl. This is never a good sign. We of course feared the worst. The last time there had been so many voicemails in such a short period of time was three years ago when my cousin Chuck died suddenly while exercising in the gym. We are not a family that does that much telephoning or leaves urgent messages unless . . .

In actuarial terms, my mother, just a few months short of 100, is the last survivor of her generation and is thus, by every expectation, euphemistically, next in line. Though Chuck’s premature passing disrupted that protective sense of security and unleashed shock waves of anxiety among all the grieving and surviving cousins. 

It was thus with fear for some version of the worst that I returned my cousin Murray's calls.

“I just heard from the paramedics. They have your mother and are taking her to the Florida Medical Center.”

“Is she . . . ?”

“Yes.” He knew what I was asking. “But I don’t know her condition. From what they told me I think she had a heart attack or a stroke. But she’s conscious. Which is good. Though at her age . . .”

I knew enough about medical emergencies for someone her age not to need to have him complete the sentence.

“We’re on our way there right now. 

I didn’t need driving directions. I knew how to get there. My father had died in the same hospital more than ten years ago. And I thought, Isn’t it a good thing we’re here snowbirding. Next I thought, I hope I see her before . . . And, even more personally, What will I do now if . . . ? 

This latter thought was the first fearful inkling I allowed myself to feel of what ultimately, if after Chuck, we returned to “proceeding” in order, what my life would be like if . . . 

* * *

We arrived at the entrance to the ER just as the ambulance that had brought her to the hospital was about to pull away. I peered into the faces of the paramedics to search for any hints that would yield about the status of her condition. I was neither calmed nor made more anxious by their noncommittal look. They had obviously seen worse. And, I tremblingly imagined, better. They were busy changing the sheets on the gurney, readying themselves for the call that would summon them to their next run; and by professionally ignoring me they signaled that it was not their responsibility, or in my best interest, for them to share or for me to receive medical information from them. It was, I feared, probably that bad.

They had fulfilled their responsibility—they delivered her there alive (how alive is what I was desperate to know) and in one piece. Still I leaned beseechingly in their direction. But before I could approach them, knowing they would have little to offer beyond what Murray had reported, still eager for any shred of news, their radio crackled and, as if liberated from me, they jumped into the front seats, pulled the doors shut, and raced off, siren blazing. 

For them it was just another day at the office. For me . . .

And then the first of the waitings began. First for Rona and me to be admitted to the ER itself. They had a strict policy that only one family member at a time is allowed to visit with patients. We were told to take seats among the parents with small children, most of whom appeared to have the flu. I wasn't unhappy to wait. I needed more time, after the wild drive down the turnpike, to collect my thoughts and prepare a face to present to my mother that would communicate concern and love and strength she could depend upon while masking the dread I was feeling. 

An ER doctor came out through a side door and said that it would be all right for us to bypass the rules—things were quiet in the ER and we wouldn’t be in the way of the staff—and therefore both of us could come in to see Mom. 

Though they still hadn’t run all the tests that they would during the next endless-feeling hours, she reported, to our great relief, that my mother was indeed conscious and, by her assessment, because of the symptoms she had observed—a slight slurring of speech--had more than likely had a small stroke. Again saying, “But at her age, no stroke, if it turns out to be that, is ‘small.’” And added, “So don’t dawdle.” With her trained and experienced eye she had undoubtedly noticed I was lagging behind Rona. “She’ll be comforted to see you.”

I took that as my mantra during the next weeks. Lacking any medical expertise, I came to learn that what comfort I might be able to bring as she moved from ER to the ICU to a regular hospital room to rehab, as she worked her way up the chain of care and restoration, could also be restorative. And so I did my best to do so—to bring comfort. And came to feel, which she confirmed in many subtle and direct ways, that this kind of involvement is an essential complement to all the testing, medications, and other treatments others were well trained to administer.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, though I do so intentionally in order to remove any false drama from this account. I want you to know that my mother is well, back home, living independently, and has no lingering effects of what in fact turned out to be a “small” stroke. So much so that she is right now taking an active lead in planning the ways in which she wants, in late, June to celebrate her centenary.

Having said this, trying to offer comfort to a mother who for some weeks was dangerously ill was not as benign for me as I had imagined it would be when the doctor in effect said—You will bring her comfort.

One of the frequent side effects of a stroke is depression. Not just for the obvious reason that one had just had a potentially life-threatening physiological event (doctors I learned called these things "events”), and who after that wouldn’t feel depressed; but there is clinical evidence that the post-stroke depression also can be just as dangerous as the stroke itself.

Thus the first kind of comforting I was able to bring involved trying to help raise my mother from her depression while she was still in the ICU in the hope that she would agree to eat something. Anything. This was extremely important, I was told, since the IV feeding was insufficient to help maintain her weight, which would be subsequently important if, in the felicitous words of one of the nurses, “She makes it [i.e., lives long enough] to rehab.”

It is never easy to convince or cajole anyone that hospital food is anything but abysmal and even unhealthy, and that still they must view it as essential to their recovery as their almost equally unpleasant medications. It is a wonder that even a happy and optimistic patient—one, for example, who has just had a rejuvenating facelift—could mobilize any interest in overcooked vegetables or pot roast that is indistinguishable from those limp greens. Thus, to get someone in the ICU who has just had a stroke to think about eating that tasteless mush, even a forkful or two of it, is a challenge. 

It is doubly difficult to feel motivated about eating when the screen that endlessly displays vital signs is constantly and alarmingly flashing and beeping and buzzing. Especially when on occasion the power surges and they go terrifyingly flat line. And it is additionally difficult to think about eating if that stroke, as it did with my mother, results in even a small deficit in manual dexterity. Her continuously quivering right hand was clear evidence of that.

Thus, you have a picture of my mother two days after the onset of her stroke. The ICU nurses reported that she hadn’t eaten a thing. Not even the Ensure supplement, which was prescribed to make up for any nutritional gaps in her “intake”--another infelicitous piece of hospital jargon.

Wanting to avoid the Ensure I understood. During one of my own hospitalizations, where the food was even worse that what the Florida Medical Center served up, they had tried to get me to down some. I made a valiant effort, but choked on the chalky taste that managed to penetrate the chocolate flavor that was meant to mask it. So I didn’t even try to get my mother to drink any, I knew better, concentrating instead of what looked like it might have once been chicken that was lying, untouched, on her tray that second evening when we visited.

Trying to be upbeat and chipper in spite of her unaccustomed immobility and the look on her face that could not hide the fact that she realized the trouble she was still very much in—it is difficult in an ICU to distract yourself from feeling you are in danger.

Not being good at pretending that all was well when I knew it wasn’t, still I tried, in the spirit of knowing that my assignment in this was to bring comfort, I said, “You’re looking better than you did this morning.” 

Nothing came back to me from my mother so I chirped on, “But I see that you didn’t touch any of your food.” To this she grunted and, with eyes closed as if to put the dreaded food out of sight, she agitatedly shook her head from side to side. I was glad to see she had the feisty capacity to do that. I took it as a sign that she was in fact doing better than during our morning visit when moving her head or just smiling seemed beyond her capacity.

“Did you try any? The nurse told me it’s very important to eat. I know the food’s not good, but . . .”

“Salty,” my mother grumbled and resumed rolling her head from side to side. I knew she hated salty food. 

I looked over at the tray and saw that the chicken, as it cooled, appeared to be growing a crust. But still I said, “I know it’s salty,” almost adding and drying out, “but you need to try to eat. You won’t get better if you don’t.” 

To this, with great effort, she raised her left hand and, letting it tremble, drew attention to the fact that an IV line was inserted in the crook of that arm; and, by looking up at the plastic bag that was connected to the line, showed me in that way that she was getting nutrition.

“Yes,” I said, “you do get some benefit from that but not enough. You still need to eat. Food.” More violently, she rolled her head side to side. I was beginning to worry that by doing this she might bring about another stroke. This couldn’t be good for the blood flow to the back of her brain where the clot had formed. So, to try to stop her and to get some real food into her, I said, “How about if I help you.” Immediately she lay still. 

“What if I cut the food into small pieces and feed you?” She made a humming sound which I took to be assent. 

Taking advantage of that, before she could change her mind and resume her head shaking, I slid closer to her and cranked up the table on which the food tray and been placed so it would fit comfortably over her. I then raised the top of the bed so that she was more or less in a sitting position. Rona adjusted her pillows to make her more comfortable. And while she was doing that, I cut the now room-temperature chicken into tiny pieces. Below the plastic line that brought oxygen to her nostrils, my mother appeared to be smiling.

“Here are some mashed potatoes. I know you like them.” (But you won’t like these, I thought.) “Now open wide.” I brought the fork with a small amount of the potatoes to her mouth while cupping my other hand under her chin to catch whatever might drop off.

“That’s good,” I said encouragingly as she strained to lift her head from the pillow and, as I had instructed, opened her mouth.

“That’s good,” I said as she sucked in some of the potatoes while the rest fell into my waiting hand. “That’s a good girl.”

A good what? Had I said girl? To my mother? I called her a girl?

Indeed I had. And, I realized, I had been talking to her as if she were not only a girl but a little one. 

As I heard myself—especially my deliberate cadence and tone—from some deep almost prehensile part of myself--I recognized the echo of these words and this intonation as the very ones my mother had employed with me many decades ago when I was her little boy, sick at home with the chicken pox or measles, as she, in the ICU, had become my little girl.

* * *

But even with my mother there, connected to a forest of life-sustaining IV tubes and monitor lines, with the diagnosis still uncertain, with her not as yet out of danger, and with her rapidly approaching 100th birthday, still, in spite of all these signs of frailty and the evidence of her impending mortality, I continued to need to believe that she was capable of rising from that bed and unhooking herself so she could be available to take care of me if I needed her. 

As she had been through the decades when I had the croup or my tonsils needed to be removed or when I came home bloodied from the schoolyard or, much later, when I faced intestinal surgery. Because, though our roles have to some extent been reversed as a consequence of aging and illness, I still need my mother to be my mommy.

Note--My mother lived to be 107 years and three days old.

December 18, 2017--A Corker

What did it take to get Senator Corker to switch his vote on the so-called tax reform bill?

Not much.

Fending off criticism that he flipped from opposing it to supporting it for mercenary reasons, he claimed he did so in part because John McCain's illness is preventing him from participating in the final vote. Corker suggested he became a supporter to, in effect, offer his vote in place of McCain's. A supporter, in McCain's case, largely because of huge tax advantages it offers to the Arizona senator himself and his family. Specifically his heiress wife.

Then Corker, to defend himself, expressed outrage that he had anything to do with provisions added to the bill that would be of significant financial benefit to him--a technical addition that provides a "carve out" that will allow certain kinds of real estate investments to become part of the pass-through provision of the bill and thus make them more valuable to large investors.

Large investors such as Corker, with a net worth of more than $50 million. Much of it in real estate.

He claims he knew nothing about this and it wasn't part of a deal to get him to flip. As a congressional insider for 11 years he certainly would know how these kinds of deals work. Here's how it worked in his case, something I know about as I used to do this sort of thing with Congress--

To provide Corker and his ilk plausible deniability staffers search around in a major bill to find things they could expand and, without having to be asked or prompted, slip into a bill to please someone whose vote they are looking to secure.

This is clearly what happened in Corker's case. He didn't need to wink or ask for the bill to be sweetened for him and, in spite of the fact that he hates Donald Trump, who has publicly humiliated him, he is going along with the bill because it is just too bountiful a deal for him and his family. It is so good that, deficit hawk though he is, because of this covert process, he could pretend his vote did not contradict his alleged passionate concern that the GOP bill will add at least $1.5 trillion to the national debt.

Cash is cash and his vote is for sale.

December 18, 2017--Snowbirding: Coke Whore (Originally Posted February 21, 2013)

“She’s such a coke whore.” 

“A what?” Charlie asked. 

We were hanging out with him at the Boynton Beach Coffee Shop, bantering with the parade of customers buying papers, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. 

“Coke whore. That's who. You're with her and all she wants is something to put up her nose. Such a slut. She’ll have sex with anyone who’ll give her any or the time of day. I mean anything. She’ll get high on a Popsicle if you give her one. Her mother? That’s a whole 'nother story. With dinner. You know what she did the other night? Not that she ever eats anything. But talk, talk, talk. That’s her middle name.  About this. About that. Really nothing. Just thinks about getting high. There’s this guy who wants to have sex with me. All day, all night. Afternoons too. Tells me how cute I am. Not that he’s that bad. But I’m not into that. Don’t get me wrong—I like sex as much as any other guy. Not that I’m a guy. It’s just an expression. I know I’m cute. But not that cute. I can see you agree with me. The cute part I mean. But like I was saying, she’s such a slut. Really, a coke whore. I don’t know where this came from. I know her too long, if you ask me. Not that you did. But last year, who knows why, this person she knows showed up and the next thing you know she was willing to, well, you know. Use your imagination. Not that you need much. Imagination, I mean. Just think about it a minute. Where do you think this is headed? No place good. How old is she after all? Not your spring chicken. But still pretty cute. Cute enough, considering. Which I’m not interested in doing. Considering. But it’s better than the other thing. If you know what I mean. The other things happening. All too much. Too, too much. I tell you. Which I know I’m doing. Not that you asked, did you? You can tell me and I’ll stop. I just came in to get some smokes. You have those unfiltered Camels today? You were out the other day. I know I shouldn’t, but at least I know my limits and when to say stop. Can't say the same for her. Just stop. Stop cold. It would do her good. There’s always time for that. To say no. First of all, does she really need this? Her mother isn’t helping. Not that she could. Help, I mean. All she wants to do is stuff food into her. I understand. She’s like a twig. You can see right through her. And you know what that means. Nothing good. Nothing good about anything. Can you think what might be? Anything good? I can’t. I’m out of time. Out of gas. Out of everything. But she’s my friend and should want to try. Or did. Not really, to tell you the truth. How can I be at the end of my rope and still want to try? But I do. Makes no sense, but still I do. Not that you can believe what I’m saying. Does any of this make sense? I can tell from the way you’re looking at me that you agree. To what I can’t be sure. But that’s the way it is. Sad, no? But she seems happy. If that’s possible. You should see the last one. Most recent one. I wouldn’t let him within ten feet of me. But what are you going to do. He keeps her happy. If you can call it that. I don’t. But that’s me. What you see, as they say. Is this ticket a winner? ‘Cause if it is, I’m outta here. I’ll probably take her along. I shouldn’t but knowing me. What can I say? But if she keeps chasing after these guys, that’s it for me. Case closed. Hasta la vista amigo.  If you ask me, that’s what I have to say. All of it. Said and done. I’ve got my life too. Get my point? One and only one so I should be moving on. Nice day out there, right? How many more of these are there gonna be? Just the cards they deal you. You get one play. One shot. One swing. Then it's nada. Over. I’m not putting that stuff up my nose. But like I said, she a coke whatever. Not that that’s the nicest thing to say about anyone. Your so-called friend. But the truth’s the truth. That’s my final word. About the truth being true. So slip me the smokes and one of those Lotto thingies and I'll be on my way. I need to go home and think about the money I’ll be winning on Saturday. I’ll be sure to come in to say goodbye. And then I'm off. Who knows where. Some place good, I hope. That would be nice. Nice. I could use some nice.” 

And with that she was gone.

December 17, 2017--Fuddy-Duddies

At lunch the other day I was surprised to note, after the election in Alabama, that though I was by far the oldest at the table, I was the only one feeling optimistic.

"How can you be that way?" Henry said, sounding exasperated. "For sure, there were the surprising results in Alabama, but Trump still controls the agenda and no matter what happens he manages to survive."

"Don't be too casual about the election results. For a very pro-abortion Democrat to win a seat in the Senate is astonishing. Alabama is about the redest state in America. And though I agree with you guys that Trump is still president and controls the narrative, this weakens him."

"You're telling me that the person who controls the nuclear codes is weak?"

"Not weak, weakened. I agree there is little likelihood he'll be impeached much less convicted in the Senate. And of course as commander in chief he has awesome power. Scary power. But I'm talking about him being weakened politically. Among voters--even some of his supporters who are beginning to abandon him, at least in private, and the Republican Party--and especially among Republicans in Congress. I feel certain that there is virtually no loyalty to him. In fact, they hate him. The contempt he has shown them. The way he mocks them. Drain the swamp. Tutored and manipulated by Steve Bannon, who wants to see everyone thrown out of office. He wants to bring them down. All politicians and officeholders. Being involved with Trump is to be slimed. Look for more and more to distance themselves. Especially as 2018 approaches and being associated with him makes them all vulnerable to losing their seats in Congress."

I pushed my dim sum dumplings around with my chopsticks.

"But look at all the terrible things he's done," Matthew said, "To the environment, our allies, civility, to cutting taxes for the rich and big corporations. You're feel optimistic about that?"

"Not about that, of course. I hate all those things too. But, again, since he will serve until 2020, a weak Trump is an improvement over an empowered one. That is a reason to feel guardedly optimistic. Also, I prefer a weakened Trump to a President Pence, who might be able to get Congress to do a lot of even more awful things."

Ellie said, "Then how do you explain the apparent passage of regressive, so-called tax reform? This from a weak Trump?"

"Fair point. I'm not saying he'll be powerless, especially in regard to the few things Republican politicians are obsessed about. Cutting taxes for wealthy people and big corporations more than anything else. But, with the victories in Virginia in November and Alabama last week, people who oppose Trump must be thinking--'We can do this! We can make things happen! We can win! Getting off our behinds and becoming activated can bring about success."

" I worry," Henry said, "That people will declare victory and check out."

"Not in my view," I said, "Nothing breeds success like success. Just think about how empowered African Americans must be feeling. Being essential to the victory in Alabama, which for them initially must have seemed hopeless. When was the last time black people had someone they supported in the South elected to statewide office?"

"Could be," Ellie said, "I was struck by the fact that lily-white Doug Jones did better among black voters than even Barack Obama."

"And don't forget that he also did better than expected among white women. Particularly women and young people. That's the traditional Democratic coalition. They are the ones who elected Doug Jones. If  that coalition holds together and we nominate good people, including moderate Democrats in purple districts, next year we can win back control of both houses of Congress."

"What about the 2020 presidential election?" Matthew said. "That's the ballgame as far as I'm concerned."

"Again," I said, "I'm optimistic that we can win then too. As long as we don't nominate someone like Elizabeth Warren. As good as she is as a Senator and advocate, I don't think America is ready for an ultra-liberal president who was a female Harvard professor."

Everyone stared at me. "Come on guys. You're acting like a bunch of old fuddy-duddies. Eat your soy sauce noodles."

December 15, 2017--John McCain's Thumbs Up

Many admired John McCain, recently diagnosed with incurable brain cancer, when he appeared on the Senate floor past midnight in late September to vote thumbs down, literally thumbs down, on the Republican bill to repeal Obamacare.

Many were looking forward to a repeat performance next week when the Senate appears set to vote on one of the most regressive budget-busting tax-cut bills in modern legislative history.

Alas, McCain has indicated he will vote for it. Actually, try physically to vote for it if the wicked side effects of radiation and chemo therapy will allow him to do so. 

If he cannot make it to the Senate, the Republicans will have an even smaller margin to pass it. Thus, if Susan Collins of my beloved Maine comes to her senses and changes her mind and votes against the bill, it has a chance of being defeated. 

I have been wondering, why McCain, at times a legitimate maverick, was or is set to vote for it, considering how much he despises Donald Trump. I came to the one obvious conclusion--he and his family would be enormous beneficiaries of the GOP bill.

It would be kind to him and especially his heiress wife who own no fewer that eight homes (remember how that was revealed during the 2008 presidential election?) since this bill is quite friendly to people with large real estate holdings.

More than that, with his and his wife's net worth topping $100 million (she inherited a fortune in beer distributorships) by doubling the current $11million one can pass along tax free--John and Cindy McCain's heirs will net at least $11 million more than they would at present

Not the kind of political legacy I would imagine he seeks. But I guess when it gets right down to it, money is money. 

December 15, 2017--Snowbirding: Half & Half (Originally Posted April10, 2014)

Parking at Walmart in Delray is more likely to get Rona and me spatting than even my tentative approach to left turns.

For example, yesterday--

"You park like an old man."

"I'm just trying to be cautious. With people backing in and out and others pushing shopping carts in the roadway, I think it's smart to be extra careful."

"I think the way you park is the way old men park."

That would be enough to get us not talking to each other and leave me on my own--as I then was--to creep up and down the aisles looking for a space that I could squeeze into that wasn't filled with abandoned shopping carts.

Then yesterday, making matters worse, there was a truly old man in the road along which I was waiting to pounce on an empty space. He was attempting to navigate in a motorized wheelchair in the basket of which was stashed a folded walker. At least he was going in the right direction.

"I wonder what he's doing," I said, knowing Rona was ignoring me and I was in effect talking to myself. "I can't believe he's looking for a car. From the looks of him they shouldn't even let him drive one of these electric scooters." I was aggravated and not feeling compassionate.

"He's probably . . . can't . . . This makes me . . . I don't know." That was Rona sputtering to herself.

"What did you say?" I was hoping to break the ice by having us talk about someone with even more driving issues than I.

"He's probably a Silver Alert person." Puzzled, I looked toward Rona. "You know, someone who has Alzheimer's, or something, who wandered off and the police and his family are looking for him. This makes me crazy. I think of myself as understanding and empathetic but this is . . ."

"You are. You are." I thought if I said it emphatically Rona would believe me and we could resume being civil to each other.

"Look. He found his car. Can you believe it? He's trying to get into it. He can't drive a scooter, but a car?"

I sighed in agreement.

"You know I love being here and I love you, but I'm glad we're heading north at the end of the week. I need a dose of New York. And I know--you don't have to say it--after three weeks I'll want to leave Manhattan and hide out in Maine."

"Let's make a quick hit here." I had finally eased into a parking space. "All we need is some bottled water and laundry detergent. We could have avoided Walmart and gone to Publix, but we were in the neighborhood and so I thought . . ."

"That's OK, love," Rona was at last smiling, "I can handle one more trip to Walmarts. Ordinarily I really like coming here. But it's just so hot, I didn't sleep well last night, and I guess in spite of myself I'm having some separation anxiety. It won't be easy to leave your mother. She's not doing as well as she was back in January and at nearly 105 you never . . ."

"I know. I know," I sighed.

"Let's get this over with quickly and head home. I think we both could use a nap."

"Deal." We exchanged fist bumps.

Once inside we quickly rounded up the water and detergent. "Can you believe it, this laundry soap is less than $4.00. At Publix it would be twice that. Like millions of others I suppose that's why we're here like."

"Billions," I corrected her.

"It is a little funny," Rona said, "to be here on Equal Pay Day. Walmart's a case in point about why we need that--more equal pay regulations."

"Indeed, indeed." I noticed I was repeating everything. Another sign of aging that annoyed Rona. This time thankfully she let it pass.

"I almost forgot."

"What's that?"

"We need a small container of half-and-half. We have three more breakfasts before we leave and I ran out this morning. I don't remember where they keep it. We never buy it here."

"I think over there where they have the orange juice. Sometimes we get our Tropicana here. The prices again are . . ."

"Yes. I see the refrigerator chest over there by the wall." Rona cut me off, clearly having had enough talk about comparison-shopping. We were soon to be back in about the most expensive place in the world, New York, where my yogurts are by now probably $2.00 rather than the 72 cents we paid for them last week at Publix. Rona understandably, before the fact, didn't want to make the sticker-shock worse that it inevitably will be.

I pushed the shopping cart toward the juice and cream chest and stopped a few paces away. "Where do they hide the half-and-half," I muttered, scanning the shelves. "It must be near here somewhere. Ah, I think it's over there right by the whipping cream."

"I see," Rona said, "But what's going on over there?"

"I don't know."

"There," she pointed, "There's an old man holding onto the door handle of the other refrigerator. It looks like he's having a seizure or something."

Concerned but not knowing what to do, I asked, "What do you mean? He looks like . . ."

"Like he's holding himself up by clinging to the handle."

"Maybe I should tell someone who works here that . . ."

"Before you do, let's see if we can help him."

By then we were within five or six feet of where he was obviously struggling with something. Maybe Rona is right, I thought, that he's experiencing some kind of neurological incident.

"Do you hear that?" Rona whispered. She had stopped and held onto the cart so I wouldn't push it any closer.

"Shouldn't we . . . ?"

"Quiet. I want to listen."

"Listen to what? He looks like he's in trouble."

"I forget you can barely hear anything. But I think he's OK. He's talking. He must be using a cell phone. Like in New York, you remember, all the people walking in the streets who appear to be talking to themselves but are on their iPhones."

I did remember that. In fact I hate it. But how unusual, I thought, that someone who looks as if he's at least 90 should be doing the same thing that twenty-somethings do so routinely.

But I did hear him talking. Actually, it sounded as if he was having an argument with someone.

"If I told you once, I told you a thousand times," he yelled, hunched for privacy close to the refrigerator door, "leave her be." He was gesturing with his free hand. "You don't need this. No more. Enough."

"I think . . ." I said.

"Quiet. I don't want to disturb him. And also, I want . . ."

"I know, to listen."

"Like I told you," he continued, still agitated, "she's no good. No good. What did she ever do for you except make your life miserable? Mis-er-able. You did this; you did that. Always thinking about her. Her good-for-nothing husband. Her children who never raised a finger to help. You, always you. Always you." His shoulders were heaving and it looked as if he was about to cry.

Rona moved us half a step closer and held a finger up to her lips to shush me.

"Remember when she came home from the hospital. After her hyster-memory operation. Who took her in? Who took care of her? Nursed her? Bathed her? Took her back and forth to the doctor?" His whole upper body throbbed. "You. You. You. No one else. You. Who gave up your bed for her and slept on the sofa? And for how long? Days? Weeks? No, months. Months."

I noticed, like me, he too was repeating himself.

"For days and days after she was strong enough to go home. If I didn't put my foot down she would still be living with us. Even though she's dead, she'd still be living with us. Wanting you to take care of her. To do her every bidding." I heard the beginning of a sob.

"And now? What now?"

By then there was someone else standing next to us who apparently needed some orange juice, But she too didn't advance further and stood patiently next to me.

"Gone. Everything is gone. Everyone gone. Over. Nothing is left. Fartik. Turned to scheisse. Scheisse. Shit!"

With that he let go of the handle, turned, and, trembling with tears, shuffled unsteadily toward the front of the store.

Rona touched his back as he passed close to her. I looked the other way at the woman who was loading a quart of juice into her cart.

There was no cell phone.

December 14, 2017--Snowbirding: The Weather (Originally Posted April 12, 2010)

“You speak to her.” 

Rona handed me the phone while I mouthed, “Who is it?”  She turned her back as I took hold of the handset and walked away.

“Yes?  This is Steven.  Hello.  Who’s this? ”

“Didn’t you say to me,” it was our New York friend, the interior designer Peggy Samson, “that you never wanted to live in a place where the primary topic of conversation is the weather?”  I nodded and, as if she could see me, she continued, “Well, all I heard from you this winter  has been, ‘Today started out nicely but then the clouds came in and before sunset we had a thunder storm.’”

“Well, we did have many days like that and . . .“

“Also all you talked about,” there was no way to interrupt her, “was how cold it was down there during January and February, ‘When we woke up this morning, can you believe it, it was 36 degrees and there was even frost on the windows.’”

“But it was cold then.  And didn’t I also tell you that I had no right to complain?  That if we were up in New York it would have been good to have 36 as the high for the day?”

“Yes, you did say that very thing.  More times than I want to recall.”

“So?  What’s the big deal?”

“Just listen to yourself.  Do you know how boring you sound?”  I had to admit she was probably right.  She told me about who met for coffee.
The breakfast group met as usual at Balthazar this morning for coffee—Sharon Short, the noted fashion editor, George Western, the noted publisher, and James Gilbertson, the noted Egyptologist.  The regulars.  
"Though since you left," Peggy said,"they made the baguette portion smaller, raised the prices, and no longer serve jam in ramekins. Most of the time we talked about what’s become of you and Rona.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“What?  About the jam or that we spent the whole morning talking about you?”

“That you were talking about us.  I’ll manage to live with the jam situation when we get back in a few weeks.”

“None too soon.  We’ll have to do a lot of remedial work on the two of you.  And please don’t show up in green pants.”

“I don’t have green pants.  Though I did buy a pair of red ones at a local store here, Mercer-Wenzel.” I was having fun with her.  There is no way I would buy much less wear red pants.  I held back from adding, “At least not until next winter.”

I did ask, “But tell me more about the jam.  I assume they’re still serving jam with the croissants.”

“In those tiny jars that you get in first class on airplanes.”

“Do they charge for them?  That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Not yet,” Peggy said with exasperation.

 “And what about the butter?  Is that at least still in the ramekins?”

“They now serve pats.  Wrapped in some kind of messy foil.”

“Ugh!  I hate that.  I know it’s very Euro, but you get butter all over your fingers when you unwrap them.”

“One thing that’s promising though.”

“And that is?”

“You’re sounding more like your old self.  You still have some of your New York spunk.  Maybe we have less work to do to deprogram you.  Sharon was worried sick that with your obsession with weather might have changed you so much that you’d come back full of reasons why we should feel good about the Tea Party.”

“Well, she’s sort of half right.  They do have . . .”

“This is just too much,” she screamed before I could say I was just kidding.  But she hung up on me nonetheless.

*   *   *

And then just last evening, Alice and I were sitting out on the lawn after our late afternoon beach walk and saw two of our neighbors who live in Massachusetts wandering toward us with cocktails in hand.  We hadn’t seen them for a while—they had been too busy with work up north to get here the past two months—and so there was a lot to catch up with.  Mainly about their health and their three children and seven grandchildren.

Everything they reported was good news, which we were very happy to hear.  

“Look,” Bill said, interrupting the updates, “that looks like a rain cloud to me.”  We all craned our heads to look to the south where he was pointing.  And sure enough, a few ominous clouds appeared to be gathering.

“For these parts, a typical mid-April, late-in-the day weather front.”  Everyone turned to Rona.  “On the Weather Channel they said we should expect this today.” We all gave her our full attention and nodded.  “But they also said there was nothing to be concerned about.  The weekend should be beautiful.  Partly cloudy with high temperatures in the mid-seventies.  And not much wind.  Just enough to keep things cool, the bugs under control, and the ocean in a nice state of agitation.  I love it when there’s some chop on the water.  Like now.”

The three of us simultaneously turned to the ocean, to follow Rona’s gaze, and sure enough there was just the right amount of wave action on the water.  Though there was a fly that was buzzing around my uncovered head undisturbed by the breeze.

“I should have worn my cap,” I said to no one in particular, while swatting at it.

“This breeze is just perfect,” Sally said.  “There’s a touch of humidity in the air and it takes the edge off it.  This is the best time of day.  But how was it, the weather I mean, since the last time we were here?”

“Let’s see, it’s been about five weeks, hasn’t it?”  Sally and Bill nodded.  “That was late February.  Is that right?”

“Yes, about then,” Bill said.  I could see him counting the weeks on his fingers.  “A little more than five weeks.  And we saw it was very cold during that time.  For here, I mean.”  Now Rona and I were doing the nodding.  “What was it?” he turned to Sally, “lows in the upper 30s and highs most days only in the 50s?  I think they set some weather records.  For all-time lows.”

“We do remember that,” Rona said while looking toward me for confirmation, “in fact on the coldest day, the one where the high was only 49, the heater in our place stopped working.  These condo units, we learned, produce both cold and hot air but they’re really designed for air conditioning.  Not heating.  So it was probably overstressed by all the heating we were asking it to do.”

“That’s happened to us last year,” Bill said.  “And you’re right about the heating and cooling.  This is supposed to be Florida where even in the winter you have to heat the place only once in a while.  But luckily they came to fix ours right away.  It was a switching problem.  What about you?”

“The same with us,” I said.  “Fortunately.  But you know,” I quickly added, “considering the weather we missed in New York this winter, where there was a lot of cold weather and at times a great deal of snow, as I told our Florida friends who were complaining all the time about how cold it was, I kept saying to them, ‘I’m the last person to have the right to complain.  I’m so fortunate to be able to be here, to be able to afford to be here when it’s so cold and wintry up north.’  And, as you said, if we had been in New York, on many days we would have been thrilled to have 38 or 45 degrees as the high for the day.”

“Look there, look at how those clouds are forming.”  Again Bill was pointing to the south.  “I bet before too long we’ll have that rain storm Rona heard about on the Weather Channel.”  Again we all twisted in our lawn chairs to get a better look.”

“I agree,” Rona said, “I’m sensing some rain in the air.”  Sally’s chair almost tipped over from her effort to get a more direct view of the sky.

“I think I felt a drop,” I said.  “Since I’m bald on top, I’m usually the first to know when it begins to drizzle.”  I brushed at my scalp both to draw their attention to my balding and to brush away the persistent fly and the beginning of the rain.

“It would be a shame if it developed into a storm,” Bill said, “We have reservations to have dinner at Veri Amici and I much prefer to sit at one of their outdoor tables.”

Always wanting to look on the bright side of things, very much including the weather, Rona reassuringly offered, “The Weather Channel promised this was going to be a passing event.”

“I hope so,” Sally said, “This is our first night here in more than a month and we were hoping for a real Floridian evening.  You know, under the stars with a gentle breeze.”

“You know, since I had that arthroscopic knee surgery, to shave my cartilage,” I added, “it’s like having a barometer in my leg.  Whenever it’s really going to rain hard, a few hours in advance it gets stiff and even painful.”  I pulled up my trouser leg to show them my repaired left knee.  “And I don’t feel a thing now.  Look.”  I flexed my leg to illustrate.  “A good range of motion and no stiffness or pain.”  I smiled at them, also to try to reassure them that they would have a lovely dinner under the stars.  “So you can count on beautiful weather later this evening.”

“But now I too am feeling raindrops,” Bill said, looking a bit deflated.  “Though the restaurant does have an awning and if it does rain there’s something nice about sitting under it and hearing the sound of it.”

In an attempt to change the subject from the weather in Florida, Rona asked, “So how was it up in Massachusetts while you were there?  From what I read, it sounded as if it wasn’t too bad.  I mean the weather.”

“And that made me comfortable about being here,” I jumped in to say, wanting to help make Sally and Bill feel better about the weather changes we were experiencing.  “I don’t like it as much when we’re down here and read about the awful weather you have up there.  I feel guilty that we’re in Florida escaping the cold and snow.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way,” Sally said.  She is the kind of person who is inclined to say things such as this to help you feel better—she is a junior high school guidance counselor back in Massachusetts and does that professionally. “You both worked hard for so many years.  You’re entitled to get away and live the good life.”  She spread her arms to take in the full expanse of the lawn and ocean as if to define further what she meant by the “good life.”

“It’s really staring to rain now,” Bill said, hunching over to keep the still gentle but intensifying rain from pelting his entire body.  “Maybe we should call it an evening.  Since Rona says it will be nice over the weekend we’ll have more time to sit out here together.  Assuming she and the Weather Channel have things under control.”  He winked at her while beginning to get up.

“But Rona’s right,” I said in support of her forecasting, “Look, look over there.  You can see the rain clouds breaking up and they’re moving east, aren’t they?  Which means that this shower will soon be over.  More important, you’ll have perfect weather for dinner tonight.”  Appreciating my confirmation, Rona was smiling and nodding enthusiastically.

*    *   *

Later that evening—and the weather did clear up well before Sally and Bill left for Veri Amici—Peggy called again from New York.  “Sorry I gave you such a hard time this morning,” she said, in her most contrite voice, “Do hurry back though.  We miss you.  Darling George said it’s not as much fun here with you guys out of town.  Isn’t that sweet since he’s really the one who’s always the most fun.” 

That was pure Peggy.  “And Jim, you know how political he is—almost a socialist—he said this morning, I forgot to tell you, that he’s actually interested in what you have to say about what all those smart Florida conservatives have been up to.  The only conservatives within five miles of here are the ones wanting to conserve what’s left of the original design of Washington Square Park.  But by Florida standards, even they are Commies.  Talk about boring.”

“We will be back in about three weeks,” I assured Peggy, “and we’ll be eager to fill you in on what we’ve been hearing and learning.  It is very interesting.  In fact, we spend so much time talking about politics and health care and economics that we hardly have any time to talk about the weather.”  I smiled toward Rona.

“I was just joking about that earlier today,” she said still trying to reassure me that she had only been needling us.  “Really.”  She paused then added, “Well, at least partly joking.  Talk about the weather to your heart’s content.”

Same old Peggy I was pleased to hear.  “I knew you were having fun with us.  Particularly the ‘at least partly’ part.  But, by the way, the weather,” I couldn’t help myself from adding, “has been very nice, though it was showering a couple of hours ago.  That’s Florida for you—sunny one minute, teeming the next.” 

I smiled at Rona when I read the note she had passed to me. “Enough about the weather,” it said.

“And,” Peggy laughed before she needed to hang up and race uptown to the theater, “we promise to forgive you even if you show up in those red pants.”