A Weekend

Many a man thinks he is buying pleasure, when he is really selling himself to it.

Benjamin Franklin

Seventeen degrees this morning. I think I'll take my morning photo through the window rather than venturing out into the cold.

But venture out I did, in the predawn darkness. See those trash cans down on the street? I got them there at a few minutes before six, crunching over the frozen lawn in slippers, pajama bottoms, heavy coat and stocking cap. I was a sight.

And I wasn't done yet. You see, today is gumbo day down at the hospital, the day when Peg spends most of the previous evening joyfully cooking up a massive batch of her famous gumbo, a Christmas tradition she shares with the Yankees down at Guthrie whose gustatory horizons do not extend to the low country. The whole package she schleps into the hospital probably weighs over thirty pounds, with full Crock Pot, tupperwares of rice, and jangling bottles of hot sauce and file. I was tasked this morning, just as I was peeling off the layers of winter clothing in the dining room from my trash can expedition, with putting that stuff back on and lugging the kit up the hill to the truck.

Which was locked when I arrived, so I had to shuffle back down the hill and get the keys. After returning to the garage to nest the gumbo on the passenger seat floor and then starting back down to the house, I encountered Peg huffing feverishly up in the opposite direction, asking if I'd seen her keys. I finally got her on her way.

And of all days, this wasn't an ideal Monday for all that frigid outdoor fun. I had both my booster and flu shots yesterday afternoon, and although I'll get through the day I feel like hell and just want to go back to bed. No rest for the wicked.

I did not feel so hot this past Saturday, either, having consumed a little too much Kentucky Gentleman with Tommy while watching a forgettable bowl game on Friday night. It was, to quote Lewis Grizzard, like watching two mules fight over a turnip.

I told myself Saturday would be a time of rest, but P had another agenda altogether. This home office in which I'm sitting is comprised of a hodgepodge of bedroom furniture left by the prior owner, a craigslist desk appropriate for a middle schooler, and a couple throw rugs from Lowe's. It does not inspire great legal work. Apparently this notion of decorating the office has been percolating with P for a while, because by lunchtime Saturday I found myself headed in the general direction of Syracuse in drizzling, cold rain to purchase a couple items P'd found for sale online.

Along the way, winding through misty brown hills bereft of leaves or snow, we tackled whatever topic flowed into the conversation. We spent some time on theodicy, we two old EfM mentors who both sort of miss thinking of such things. Theodicy is the problem of evil in a world created by an omniscient and omnipotent God. That's not particularly scriptural, but folks get wound up when you suggest their deity may lack absolute knowledge or power.

P's of the "we just don't know" school of thought, urging humility about our faculties for knowing and understanding the problem of evil in the world and God's role in it. Mine is a little more radical view, I suppose--that God is not already there at the end of the teleological arc, that he or she is living in space and time with the rest of us, learning as things unfold, and plopped us into a creation that was the best a deity could do with the knowledge available at that moment in the distant past. The alternative seems to lead to a God who's not inherently good or just, the sort of divine SOB we encounter in Job. I'd rather think God's virtue is reflected in his or her ability to make good out of brokenness and pain, neither of which were God's creation.

So, having not solved that problem after discussing it for the fiftieth time, we arrived at our first destination, a subdivision on a hill of gaudy, early 2000s vintage houses crouched on treeless three acre lots. One of these held our new bookcase. The nice couple who sold it to us were very Italian, with reminders of the home country scattered around the interior of their rather cold and marble-filled house. They were selling their stuff because they'd had enough of New York winters and wanted to be closer to their grandkids in Boca.

Having spent time in Boca, I can say it wouldn't be my first choice, but it's theirs to make. The man of the house and I lugged the bookcase out into the bed of the truck where Peg and I tarped it, thanked him, and continued north for the other purchase.

It is an awfully lovely bookcase, I must say.

The conversation as we approached Syracuse centered on where to go if Trump wins in 2024, or loses and starts a civil war. The papers this weekend were filled with warnings that this may be on the horizon, from retired generals suggesting our military ranks may be filled with would-be mutineers, to academics observing that the empirical signs of impending civil war are coalescing at a rate no one could have anticipated. Oh, and one side in this little political squabble has purchased 37 million guns in the last two years. Literally.

So, where could two sixty-ish folks who don't want to live through this national self-immolation go? Language is an issue--neither P nor I was ever much for learning a foreign tongue, even when we still had a modicum of brain plasticity. The cheap places are all closer to the equator, it seems, which means they're vulnerable to all the Old Testament vicissitudes brought on by climate change. We're going to be pretty old when we show up--they may not want us, and health care may prove a problem.

The Azores briefly floated to the top, then not. Likewise for Portugal. Ireland has its charms, but if they found us squatting there illegally we'd be handcuffed and on the next Air Lingus flight back to Boston. Finally we decided on Canada, which would allow us to venture south of the border every now and then to visit our satsumas and geese.

And then there we were, driving through Syracuse and up to the north side where Peg had found an old trunk for sale. The nice hipster couple in the 1940s working class bungalow were pleasant enough, and he even came out in the rain to help me load it into the backseat of the Honda. I apologized for him being out there in slippers as the rain started to pick up. "It's just water," he replied without smiling, then walked back up the steps and into the house.

The trunk became a "must have" for P when she saw that it was stamped with "Syracuse" from some long forgotten travels. It's obviously quite old.

That's Jo Jo perched on top this morning. She's growing up fast.

Our buying spree complete, we stopped in Syracuse at an Irish pub in a hotel to have a celebratory glass of wine before the long drive home. There was a wedding party in the bar, young and happy and all a little drunk for four in the afternoon. P and I watched Tiger Woods and his kid play in a tournament together on television, which sent me down a melancholic path as I thought about my own sons and how much I'd love to play eighteen with them one day. Maybe it'll happen--life's a long game.

But now I need to refocus on work--I'm mediating a big, complicated case with lots of players here in a few minutes. Grateful for the work, which will just about pay for this shopping adventure.